


The Long Road to Home

by sanguine_scales



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Gabriel Returns, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 58,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguine_scales/pseuds/sanguine_scales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam’s pretty sure that nothing in the past couple of years could have prepared him for the surprise waiting for him outside of the Bunker that morning. Sure, the knock was pretty unexpected, but there was always the chance it was Castiel actually getting used to the idea of using doors after his stint as a human or one of their few allies knocking. A little outside of the norm maybe, but not that out of the ordinary.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Until he opens the Bunker doors, Ruby’s knife in hand, and finds Adam Milligan, pale and shaking, standing just outside the doorway.</i></p><p>Or how, through the power of sarcasm, angel mojo, and sheer dumb luck, the world didn't go up in flames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for clicking! Just a couple of housekeeping things before we take off. This work is currently unbetaed, so please forgive any typos that I failed to catch in re-reading. This starts somewhere between Sam kicking Gadreel out and Dean picking up the Mark of Cain in Season Nine. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter only include mild language, and I'll always post warnings with applicable chapters up here in the future. If you happen to see something in a chapter that you feel is potentially trigger-y that hasn't been labeled, please feel free to let me know. Tag will be updated as chapters are added.
> 
> As always, I don't own Supernatural or any of its lovely characters; I just love borrowing them to satisfy my random muses.

Sam’s pretty sure that nothing in the past couple of years could have prepared him for the surprise waiting for him outside of the Bunker that morning. Sure, the knock was pretty unexpected, but there was always the chance it was Castiel actually getting used to the idea of using doors after his stint as a human or one of their few allies knocking. A little outside of the norm maybe, but not that out of the ordinary.

Until he opens the Bunker doors, Ruby’s knife in hand, and finds Adam Milligan, pale and shaking, standing just outside the doorway.

So the second Sam actually gets control of his higher brain function, he does what any sane hunter would do when facing their previously hell-bound half-brother: he breaks out the holy water.

Adam gasps and promptly scowls. Shaking, soaked, and giving Sam the stink-eye, Sam’s still processing brain makes the connection between that picture and a soaked cat. It isn’t exactly helpful in the grand scheme of things.

“What the _hell?_ ” Adam demands, but his voice is rough and shaking as bad as his hands, “Can I come in now? Or do I have to know the secret handshake?”

Sam stares dumbly at him. He knows he should get out the silver and the salt just in case. They’ve been fooled by a ghoul that looked like Adam before. Hell. _Michael_ had been processing Adam last time Sam saw him. But it registers that this is his _little brother_ whom they _left in the Cage_ , and Sam dumbly wonders if this is the sort of crap that goes through Dean’s head any time Sam does something stupidly dangerous or unexpected.

If it really is Adam, they owe him.

If it really is Adam…

“O…kay. Look. I’m thirsty, I’m freakin’ _starving_ , and I don’t think my legs are gonna hold out much longer. Can we _please_ do the creepy soul-staring somewhere where I can sit down?” the blonde demands. He looks miserable, and even the irritation is slowly giving way to his apparent discomfort. The tremors are getting worse, and he looks like he’s lost even more color in the handful of minutes since this exchange started.

Sam reasons that the wards should reject nasty surprises for the most part. Except angels processing vessel. He draws on the long-buried memories of Stull and sharing head-space with Lucifer. It’s unpleasant, but he recalls vague memories of Michael, filtered through Lucifer’s almost unfathomable perception. They’re difficult to understand at best, and it’s even worse to try and pick away Lucifer’s clearly inhuman preconceptions and thought processes to get to the bare facts. It leaves him with a vague sketch of Michael at best, and he’d hardly rely on it outside of desperate times. These are desperate times, however, and he thinks that Michael would have presented himself as a warrior and a commander – not as an irritated teen on the verge of collapsing in the front lawn.

So he moves aside and lets Adam in.

He doesn’t miss the sigh of relief that pours from his younger brother. It feels like the punch that finally knocks Sam into the slow burn of old guilt and regret. “I…. I need to check,” Sam warns him as he leads him to the nearest chair in the library. When he gets a confused look, Sam clarifies, “That you’re _you_.”

Adam huffs, irritated, but doesn’t seem all that surprised as he drops boneless into the arm chair. He lifts a hand vaguely. “Go for it.”

He’s pretty still throughout the whole ordeal. Just hisses a little when Sam drags the silver knife over the skin of his forearm. He keeps the cut as shallow as he can manage, and he hates the latest surge of guilt. He hates that he has to bleed his brothers to assure himself that they aren’t monsters in human skin.

It gets worse when Adam passes each test and checks out as perfectly human. When nothing happens after Sam touches his bloody fingers to the banishing sigil he draws on the table, he literally can think of nothing else. And then the questions, barely held at bay by the fear of false hope, come crash through the broken walls around his thoughts. First, however, he clasps Adam’s shoulder and says with all sincerity, “I’m really glad you’re here.” It’s more than that – more than he knows how to word – because he and Dean have always been fairly stunted when it comes to real feelings.

Adam eyes him, suspicious and wary. He doesn’t reply to the sentiment, and Sam doesn’t blame him for it. “If we’re playing twenty questions, at least let me get some water and something to eat first,” he says instead.

Sam nods, fairly assured that Adam’s not going anywhere in the near future, and heads to the kitchen. He’s halfway through making a sandwich when it hits him like a punch that his little brother is sitting in the Bunker: that he shouldn’t know where the Bunker is in the first place. And then there’s the question of how the hell he got out in the first place.

If Adam is the only one who got out or...

Sam clenches his jaw and sends Dean a text, telling him he needs to get back to the Bunker as soon as he can – preferably with Castiel.

He gives Adam, who’s eyes are more than half shut at that point, the sandwich and bottle of water. The younger man digs into it like it’s the first thing he’s eaten since...

Sam grimaces and tries not to acknowledge that that’s probably exactly the case. He takes a seat across from Adam and tries to make himself as comfortable as he can with the tension rolling in the room. “How are you…?” he starts before he shakes his head, clears his throat, and tries again, “What happened?”

Adam finishes half of the bottle of water in one go. If he didn’t look so _relieved_ , Sam might have thought to caution him to take it easy. When he’s done, he holds the bottle on the arm of the chair and leans back. “Michael. I think,” he answers with a shrug, “Kinda hard to think with a volcano in your head. I woke up back at Stull, and he brought me here while he looks for a vessel or something. I donno.”

Sam frowns because now they’ve got an archangel on the field. He doesn’t know if Metatron’s spell has even effected the inhabitants of the Cage, but he needs to know if they’re supposed to be gearing up for Apocalypse Round Two. “Wait… Why would he give you up?” Sam asks, “Weren’t you perfect?”

Adam looks unimpressed. “’Cause I really look like I have all the answers, Sam,” he says dryly, “Seriously, dude. It’s like I had some vague, shitty dreams and woke up about an hour ago.” His eyes are half-lidded now, and it looks like he’s fighting with all he has to stay awake. “You can ask Michael, but I don’t think you actually want him to talk until he gets a body if you like your eardrums.”

Sam grimaces, “So he’s coming back for you?”

Adam’s shoulders twitch. It looks like he isn’t even aware that the shrug he's presumably going for didn’t actually happen. Sam bites his tongue and holds back the questions that he’s still got. He gets up and carefully takes the water from Adam’s hand. “Come on,” he urges, helping Adam up, “You can crash in my room for now.”

For the promise of a bed, Adam leans heavily against Sam. It’s slow going, but it only takes a few minutes before Sam pushes the covers back and Adam drops right onto the pillows. He mutters something that might have sounded like relief or a curse and is asleep only seconds later.

Sam watches over him for a seconds or two longer before he remembers that that’s probably weird and heads out to wait on Adam to wake up or Dean to call.

In the end, it’s Dean that calls first.

He takes the news about as well as Sam figured he would. He can almost feel Dean stewing in the same sense of guilt that Sam feels himself. The younger Winchester is just glad that Castiel decided to go with Dean to bust the banshee because, if anyone can break through Dean’s overly developed sense of responsibility, it’s Castiel.

“So Adam’s back, and we’ve got at least one MIA archangel,” Dean summarizes through a sigh, “It’s always something.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam agrees, “Look… Just… Warn Cas. Tell him to keep an ear on angel radio, okay?”

Dean agrees and tells Sam he’ll update him if Castiel figures anything out.

Adam sleeps through the night and the next day, and Sam ends up crashing on the couch in front of the entertainment center. He checks in periodically, makes sure that Adam’s still breathing and not running a temperature or anything. He sets another bottle of water on the stand by the bed just in case.

Later that afternoon, Sam walks in around the time Adam’s dragging himself out of bed looking more dazed than when he’d been ready to fall asleep on his feet. He grabs the water and finishes off half of it before he turns to Sam. “I need a shower,” he announces promptly.

They fall into something of a routine. Sam avoids asking more questions that Adam can’t answer, and Adam just plain avoids Sam for the most part. It’s touch and go, and Sam _gets it_ , he really does. He remembers the burn of betrayal from the Gadreel disaster – remembers how he’d needed space from Dean.

That betrayal is nothing compared what they’ve done to Adam. Or, more accurately, what they haven’t done for Adam.

He only realizes how badly that distance stings when he’s the big brother on the other end of it.

 

* * *

 

In the next three days, Adam rapidly recovers his lost color and picks up a couple of pounds to put him back a healthy weight. The dark circles under his eyes get worse, like his nightmares are reminding him of what he can’t consciously remember. Sam’s not a stranger to nightmares, but it looks like Adam’s managing fairly well, all things considered. Sam offers to do whatever he can to help. Adam just nods tightly, but at least he doesn’t outright reject it.

On the fourth day, Dean and Castiel are due to arrive, and Sam finds Adam sitting at the table when he brings in breakfast. Sam elects not to mention the breach of their routine. He tries not to read into it just in case he’ll be disappointed.

When everything’s set out, Adam breaks the silence. “I remembered my dream,” he says, voice oddly soft as he intently watches the tabletop, “My mom… She told me to run, but I…” He swallows and shakes his head. Blue eyes raise to meet Sam’s gaze, and the middle brother is surprised to see the familiar determination there. “Teach me to hunt, Sam.”

So they start small after breakfast. Sam breaks out one of the Men of Letters books filled with basic defensive wards and methods to spot and kill various monsters. Adam’s a quick study and apparently has a knack with wards and sigils. Sam wonders if it’s a byproduct of being so thoroughly tied to Michael for so long or if it’s just natural talent.

Regardless, he’s proud, and he even manages to pull a laugh out of Adam with a dry comment about harpy hunts.

By mutual agreement, they decide to wait a few more days to give Adam’s body a chance to catch up and recover before they start combat and weapons training. In the meantime, Sam thinks back to how Dean taught him all those years ago. It’s strange to be on the other end of that sort of bond, but he looks forward to it. They spend the afternoon in relative peace, huddled on the couch since Adam’s been wanting to binge on the TV he’s missed over the past few years. It’s nice. Sam even manages to dig out some popcorn that’s probably from Charlie’s last visit.

And that’s how Dean and Castiel find them halfway through the latest round of Marvel movies.  

All things considered, Dean takes it fairly well. He just decides to take the ‘pretend the emotions don’t exist’ route and settles onto the couch on the other side of Sam. Adam seems to appreciate the approach if the way the tension drops right out of his shoulders is any indication.

It’s Castiel, surprisingly, that eyes Adam like he can’t figure out what the hell is going on. Since Castiel can see more than Sam and Dean can with just a look, they shut up and wait for him to talk. It’s a testament to Castiel’s progress with human expressions that he drops whatever he was going to say when Adam turns into a line of stress and tension against Sam’s side.

Dean points to the arm chair next to him, “Sit down, man. You can’t skip out on Marvel.”

Castiel obediently takes a seat, which means that whatever he’s seen probably isn’t of earth-shattering importance.

It’s well into the night before Adam calls it quits after Guardians of the Galaxy. Sam shuts the TV off, and a strange, charged feeling takes over in the resulting silence. Dean gets up with Adam and clasps a hand on the blonde’s shoulder. Adam half-turns to get a look at him over his shoulder. “Look. I get it, okay?” he says even if his tone says that he’s not happy about it, “Just stop bringing it up ‘cause it really pisses me off when I think about it.”

Dean’s grip looks like it tenses, and his face twists with guilt. He looks like he’s trying to reform a plan of action and ends up choking out, “I’m glad you okay, man.”

Adam sighs. The defensive aggression in his stance plummets into weariness. In the dark, the shadows under his eyes are worse, but his eyes are bright. “Yeah. Me, too,” he says. He pulls his shoulder out of Dean’s grip, salutes Sam, and heads down the hall to the bedroom he’s claimed as his own since Sam busted out the extra linen and some of Kevin’s old clothes (which prompted a trip into town for new clothes because it felt like an invasion).

It’s quiet for a little while until Dean turns to Castiel and lifts his brows in a silent ‘ _spill it_.’

The angel in question eyes the hall Adam left down. “His soul is remarkably well kept,” he announces, dark brows shifting down with a frown.

Dean doesn’t look happy, and Sam could feel a pang of cold fear as he remembers what it means to have a damaged soul. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” Dean asks, arms crossed over his chest.

Castiel shakes his head, “It isn’t. Merely surprising.” Blue eyes turn to the brothers in question. He eyes Sam for a few seconds, until it’s enough to make the younger Winchester glance away given the topic at hand. “There are shreds of Grace reinforcing the fissures of damage, and his soul hardly seems to have aged.”

Dean’s frown drops into a scowl. “So what? Kid’s got a guardian angel?”

Castiel makes a face like that’s a grand oversimplification. In all honesty, neither brother really doubts that’s the case. Even if Castiel has done time as a human recently, neither of them forget that he’s lived much, _much_ longer as an angel. “It means that Michael protected him from the Cage itself – a feat that I would have previously assumed to be impossible.”

Sam pulls a face and goes pale. Since Castiel’s intervention, the memories are dusty – like looking through a filthy pane of glass – compared to before. That doesn’t mean much, and the sick dread and fear still curls like a snake in his stomach. “What makes you say that?” he forces himself to ask.

Castiel watches Sam again, but this time it’s born more from concern than reflection. “Sam,” he begins gently, “The Cage is an enemy unto itself. It poisons and twists your memories. I suspect the original intent was to cause reflection, but there isn’t much in Creation that can withstand the full fury of a fallen archangel without… changing.”

Sam flinches. It’s not even perceptible to human eyes, but Castiel sees it in the faintest twitch of muscle fibers and the subtle shift of skin. “He owed Adam that much at least.”

Castiel doesn’t argue with that. 

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, Adam integrates pretty smoothly into Sam and Dean’s routine around the Bunker. He drags himself out of bed to go jogging with Sam and promptly collapses back on the couch when they get back inside to catch a few extra hours of sleep before Dean eventually gets around to breakfast. He skims books from the archives and usually only ends up asking Sam a few questions around lunch time. Somehow Dean catches wind that he’s not a half-bad hand with cars, so he ends up pitching in since Dean’s banned Sam and Castiel from going within a foot of an engine unsupervised. They start going over hand-to-hand, and by the time that’s all finished, it’s time for a movie binge and sleep 

Somehow, in true Winchester fashion, they completely avoid topics like ghouls, the Cage, and the almost-Apocalypse. Instead, they have to piece together the story about the civil war, the Trials, Abaddon, and the Fall. Naturally Adam isn’t all that happy about that they’re involved in another annual crisis, but he doesn’t honestly look that surprised either.

Sam doesn’t want to think about what that says about them.

It’s nearly two weeks later, and Dean’s starting become restless for a hunt. Naturally that’s when Castiel calls. Sam picks it up because Dean’s currently underneath the front end of one of the Men of Letters’ old cars with Adam making suggestions here and there and is mostly getting shot down.

“What’s up, Cas?” he greets.

“I’ve met with a development,” Castiel replies. It sounds like he’s in the car with the windows rolled down. Sam might be a little wary about a relatively new driver chatting, but it’s Castiel, so he’s not that worried. “I’ve encountered…” He pauses long enough to get out a muffled “No, it’s Sam” presumably to somebody in the car.

It’s enough to throw Sam off. “Cas… Is somebody with you?” he asks. The question is enough that Dean slide out from under the hood of the car long enough to give Sam a curious look.

“Yes, Sam,” Castiel replies, “That is the development. I heard a call two days ago on angel radio. I followed it, and it seems I’ve found Michael.”

Sam’s pretty sure the shock reads on his face because Dean’s suddenly marching toward him with a hand stuck out for the phone. Sam shakes his head and hold up his index finger. “And you’re okay with that?” he asks, grave and serious. Castiel is his friend. If he’s being threatened…

“Yes. I’m fine,” Castiel replies, “But, Sam, if Michael has escaped…”

Sam tries hard to clear the sudden lump in his throat. “I know,” he manages, but his voice is rougher than he would have liked. Now Dean’s giving him that wary, impatient look like he wants to find whatever is bothering Sam and Castiel and gank it with all haste.

 Castiel mutters something, presumably to Michael. The sound of the open window slowly fades. “Michael would like to speak with you if that’s amiable to you,” he tells Sam.

“Me?” Sam questions before he catches himself, “I guess. Just… be careful.”

“I could ask the same of you and Dean, but I somehow don’t expect it would do much good,” Castiel replies dryly. It’s almost enough to ease the new knot of tension that’s taken up residence right in the junction of Sam’s left shoulder.

He hears the sound of the phone being shuffled as waits.

“Samuel Winchester,” the unfamiliar, masculine voice greets. It’s a deep tenor, but there’s a softness to it that does nothing to lessen the authority it holds. Sort of the opposite, if Sam had to say: like he _knows_ he’s the big fish in the pond and sees no need to flaunt it. “Castiel informs me the Men of Letters are currently attempting to reopen heaven.” There’s just a hint of an accent lurking around the vowels but not nearly enough for Sam to pick up on its origin.

“I uh… Yeah,” Sam replies, entirely out of his depth. He’s never actually spoken to Michael personally – just heard him speaking, arguing, and thundering with Lucifer. So he tries to treat it like he’s talking to any other angel he’s met: cautious and concerned for Castiel. He doesn’t mention that he and Dean are all that’s left of the Men of Letters. Doesn’t point out that they're almost certain there's no way to fix what's been done.

“Then I formally request sanctuary and an alliance,” Michael replies promptly, tone just as solid and steady as before. He talks like this isn’t a _big deal_.

Sam opens and closes his mouth at least three times before he manages to spark a couple of brain cells into action. “Why?” he asks before he can think better of it. Once he’s said it though, he can’t stop himself from pushing that line of thought. “Why should we? _You_ wanted to burn the world up last time we met. You got Adam stuck in this mess.”

Ah, and now Adam’s next to Dean, looking equal parts curious and irritated. Any other time, Sam would snatch the opportunity to tease them about how their expressions are close to identical. Right now, he’s too busy getting angry.

“Because I imagine my brother is also free by now,” Michael answers. If he’s insulted by the line of questioning, he’s hiding it well under a stone-cold monotone. “I also know a counter spell that should, in theory, open the Gates, but I will require a place to rest and recover as well as resources that are currently… unavailable to me.”

The way he says it reminds Sam that there’s a reason he and Castiel are in a car and not flying when the whim hits them. It doesn’t loosen up the knot of anger in chest.

“I need to talk to Dean,” Sam finally replies.

Michael hums an affirmative. “Very well.”

There’s another shuffle before Castiel is speaking again, “Sam, I ask that you seriously consider this. I believe Michael may be the only one left with the knowledge to undo Metatron’s spell.”

“Dean’ll call you back after we figure it out,” Sam promises, signaling the end of the conversation.

Naturally, Dean takes the news about as well as Sam. He’s suspicious and angry. The only thing that stops them from outright rejecting the idea is Castiel’s plea and the hope that something could be done to get the gates open. Sam doesn’t tell him about the possibility that Lucifer is out of the box, too. Sam’s sure the thought’s already crossed him mind, but he doesn’t want to bring up the fact that two out of two angels surveyed agree it’s likely.

Surprisingly, Adam cuts into this argument. “Look,” he says, stepping between them, “I get it. Trust me, if anybody should be pissed at him, it’s me, but he wasn’t…” He looks at Sam like he doesn’t want to say the next part, but he doesn’t really have much of a choice. “When you were a vessel, you got an impression of his mind, right?”

Dean looks simultaneously heartbroken and furious. Sam just nods tightly in instead of trying to get his vocal cords to make noise.

“So did I,” Adam continues, “And Michael was just trying to do what he thought was right. So maybe he screwed up, but he thought this was The Plan, and that damn sure makes him sound a lot like you guys, doesn’t it?”

It stings. Adam has a point, and it isn’t pleasant.

It takes nearly half an hour of arguing, but they eventually come to a conclusion. Dean stalks off to call Castiel and tell him to bring their impromptu guest over. Adam looks pleased, but Sam isn’t really sure what to think. It’s certainly not the first time they’re have had a former enemy under their roof. It’s that most of their enemies-turned-allies don’t have the power to destroy the planet as collateral damage.

During the next several days, the tension is abnormally thick, and Dean spends most of his spare time hiding new safe guards against potentially ballistic angels around the bunker while Sam digs into old achieves for anything that might not hurt Castiel in the process. Adam just looks equal parts amused and annoyed. It’s dark by the time Castiel arrives. Dean’s quick to look him over for signs of distress, but they all know Castiel would have risked everything to get them a message if something was that wrong. Instead, it looks like a weight has been lifted from the angel’s tan-clad shoulders.

The man behind him – _Michael_ , Sam realizes – has picked a vessel somewhere between Castiel and Dean in height. His dark hair is just long enough to lightly curl, and a well-managed dusting of stubble darkens a strong jaw. His nose looks like it’s been broken and reset, and green eyes watch the amassed humans with the uncanny intelligence and calculation that Sam actually _does_ recognize on a completely different face – one his mind could barely comprehend.

He inclines his head slightly, “I am pleased that you have decided to accept my offer.”

“We didn’t do it for you,” Dean clarifies sourly, “We did it for Cas.”

Michael glances at Dean, and Sam wonders just what he’s looking for. “Regardless of your intentions, I would see my brothers and sisters returned home and restored,” he states.

It’s then that Adam steps up. “You okay?” he asks, eyeing the angel like his vessel will actually hold a clue to the answer of that question. He looks genuinely concerned – if in a very Winchester-esque way – but Sam figures that makes sense given that he knows Michael protected him from the nightmare that Sam occasionally relieves in his sleep.

Michael’s gaze shifts to Adam, and his head tilts slightly to the side. “I am well,” he replies, “As are you.” Even though it’s a statement and nothing like a question, Adam nods to confirm it anyway. Michael watches him for a moment more before his attention draws back to the group as a whole. “In an effort to lessen your suspicion, I intend to share the details of my plan,” he announces formally.

Sam blinks the surprise from his face as quickly as he can. From the second-hand information he has on Michael, he knows that the warrior is blunt and straight-forward but never to the point of folly. He is, at heart, more than a gifted tactician and a better leader of forces. Given that, Sam can’t understand why he’d so openly show his hand when he knows Dean and Sam owe him no favors.

Regardless, Dean accepts because they’d be stupid not to, and Adam ushers them into the library around a table because he claims he needs a chair to doze off in while they talk about things he doesn’t care about. Sam figures he’s really just trying to defuse the tension, so he goes along with it.

Dean sits on one end of the table with Michael on the other while Castiel, Sam, and Adam spread themselves out in the middle. It’s tense and awkward, but not nearly as much of a standoff as it might have been if they’d stayed standing in the entrance room.

“So let’s hear this big master plan,” Dean prompts.

Michael folds his hands on the table and nods. “There is a fail safe,” he announces, “Though I’d never imagined a reason for its existence until recently. There is no way to force the Gates. However, there is a… _key_ of sorts. A means of authenticating the right of the current authority in heaven to rule. Naturally, Metatron’s claim is seconded to that of several other angels.”

“Including yours,” Sam points out, “Which means _we_ have to gear up for Apocalypse Round Two.”

Michael frowns. “My claim is indeed more relevant,” he admits, “However, I believe Castiel’s resurrection is a sign that my method was… not favored. Regardless, I would not lead my siblings into battle as they are now unless we had no other alternative,” It’s the first time Sam’s ever seen a full-blown expression on his face. His features are drawn and tense, but his gaze doesn’t shy away from any of them.

Adam mutters a smug, quiet “told you so.” Castiel is about as close to openly gaping as he’s ever gotten, so it’s pretty obvious that he’s never heard that particular opinion. And Dean…

Dean slams his hands down on the table, furious. “What? _Now_ you’re sorry?” he demands, “Couldn’t have been before your goons hunted us down – tortured us – killed Cas _twice_ , and nearly blew up the whole damn planet? Sammy had to take the friggin _swan dive with the devil_ , and do you have any idea how bad off his soul was after that? Of course you did ‘cause you watched it _breaking_ in the first place!”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses partially because he’s worried about a fight but mostly because he doesn’t want to think about that time.

“Shut up, Sam. This has gotta be said,” Dean snaps, “On top of screwing over me and my brother, you guys exiled Cas for giving a damn about humanity, and it coulda broken him!” Sam grimaces as he remembers the clipped, few sentences Dean had ever spoken about the future that didn’t happen.

Dean laughs, but it’s bitter and humorless, “I’m grateful for Adam. Really _._  I am, if not for the fact that he wouldn’t have even been _in_ the Cage in the first place if not for you!” He sucks in a breath and calms just a fraction, but the anger still burns bright in his eyes. Sam tenses up, and Castiel is halfway out of his seat to physically pull Dean away because they both know that whatever Dean’s about to say next is going in for the kill.

“Do you even know what happened to Gabriel?” he demands.

“ _Dean,_ ” Castiel snaps, voice deep with authority and power. Sam and Adam wince, hearing the faintest edge of something _inhuman_ layered under the tone.

Dean huffs like he’s been running from a Wendigo and turns to Castiel. He looks like he’s ready to keep going until he catches the angel’s eyes, narrowed with a silent plea. It makes Dean hesitate and slowly force himself back into control. He sets his jaw and slumps back in his chair with his arms crossed defensively.

It’s tense and way too quiet.

Adam doesn’t seem to know which side to weigh in on and stays carefully and wisely neutral. Castiel has gone still and unreadable in a way that Sam remembers of the Apocalypse that never was, like he’s so far in his own head, he’s forgotten to pretend to be human. Michael… He’s gone even more stock-still than Castiel. Sam’s pretty sure he isn’t even breathing, but that’s so much better than the smiting that Sam had been fearing would take place. Dean’s still simmering, and Sam’s split between concern and old hopeless resignation.

“Gabriel.”

Everyone turns to Michael as he breaks the silence. His tone is quiet but carefully sturdy. It reminds Sam strangely of interviewing the families of victims, but he tells himself he’s just projecting. “Tell me,” he says to Dean.

The anger snaps out of Dean, and the void is replaced by suspicion. He eyes the angel for a long moment. Whatever he finds there eases the suspicion into surprise and something cautious that Sam has trouble identifying. He slowly unfolds, looking for words. Sam trusts Dean with his life, but that doesn’t mean that he expects Dean to bother with tact when he has every reason not to. He just can’t forget the look he’d seen on Gabriel’s face in the warehouse when they’d learned his true identity – the old hurt and older love when he’d talked about his brothers.

Sam knows he wouldn’t have wanted this turned into a weapon against one of the brothers he’d loved, so he steps in. And if he thinks that this is his burden to bear, too, that’s his business. “He stepped in when Lucifer found us,” he explains, “He told us to go while he stayed and fought. He died to give us a chance. The Horseman rings were his idea.”

Sam isn’t sure what he expects. The simultaneous shattering of the glass in the room is probably on par, but he certainly isn’t expecting the ground to rock and the table to crack straight down the middle where Michael’s hands are laying.

As quickly as it started, it stops.

It’s hard to see anything since the only light left functioning is the one spilling in from the hallway, but there’s a snap and suddenly the room is back in complete order except for the poor table. Michael’s already on his feet and headed outside with an “excuse me” while the three humans recover and Castiel debates his options.

“This right here?” Dean says a few minutes later, “Is _exactly_ why I said we shouldn’t bring him here.”

“’Cause you wouldn’t throw a fit if you just got told Sam died to help the other side,” Adam snaps, “Holy shit, dude, you’re sorta heartless when it’s not about your little family.”

“Stop it,” Sam tells them because he’s learned enough in the past few days to see another one of Dean and Adam’s spats erupting. They know just enough about each other to find the spots that hurt and _dig_ into them like wild animals, and they're enough alike that they their fights get nasty fast. And maybe that’s why he’s loosened up on the memory of Gabriel – because he suddenly gets that being the buffer _sucks_ , and Sam’s only been dealing with two very human brothers for a couple days. He has a hard time imagining what it would be like if Adam and Dean suddenly grew archangel wings and enough power to flatten a planet.

“I agree,” Castiel interjects gravely, “I believe enough has been said today in anger.”

Dean turns his disbelieving gaze toward Castiel. “Seriously, Cas? You’re siding with him?”

Castiel frowns deeply, “Sam and I often agree. I was unaware you were surprised by this.”

“Not Sam,” Dean corrects, pointing to the door, “ _Michael_.”

The look Castiel gives him is strangely hurt. Dean recoils under it even if the physical signs are difficult to pick out. “I asked you to trust my judgement, Dean,” Castiel replies openly, “I think that sometimes you fail to recall that they are my family.”

It’s not a hostile statement or even an accusation, but Dean goes rigid under it. “You’re our family, too,” he points out.

Castiel nods his head with a sigh, apparently recognizing his misstep. “Yes. I apologize. That isn’t what I intended to call into question,” he corrects, “I mean to emphasize that Adam’s point was valid: that I personally witnessed enough to know that Gabriel was not the only angel to love his brothers dearly.”

Dean clenches his jaw and nods tightly. He pushes himself up and heads toward the opposite hall. “’M gonna work on the car,” he announces as he goes.

Adam sighs and lets his head fall against the table with a dull ‘ _thump_.’ Naturally, with the deep fissure still running through the middle, that’s all the stress it can take before it cracks in two completely and folds in on itself. Castiel is fast enough to snatch Adam by the back of the shirt and haul him back into his chair before he goes crashing forward into the mess of wood and nails, too.

The two younger brothers stare at the mess before Adam throws his hands up in the air with an irritated shout of “Oh freaking course! The universe is out to kill me. _Again_.”

“I believe this to be an appropriate time to welcome you into the family,” Castiel replies blandly. Sam snorts while Adam gapes at the sense of humor that the angel has managed to develop over the past few years. He’s on his feet before either of them can make a comment about it with the announcement that he’ll speak to Dean.

Sam carefully eases himself away from the mess of the table and waits until Adam’s away from it as well before he thinks about moving. “So,” Adam announces, “I’ll go after Michael, and you run cleanup?”

Sam’s honestly more than happy to avoid archangel duty, so he figures cleaning up the remains of the table isn’t a bad deal. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel finds Dean already under the hood of the Impala with a box of tools lying next to the car. Metallica is playing from the outdated radio set up on one of the shelves. Castiel knows Dean Winchester well enough to know to wait for him to offer up the direction of this conversation 

It begins with a hand peeking out from the car and a request for a tool.

Castiel obliges and settles down somewhat awkwardly next to the tool box. They’re quiet in the presence of the music with the exception of periodic exchanges of tools and the occasional explanation of what exactly Castiel is supposed to look for in the box.

It’s only after the sound of an unpleasant ‘ _thud_ ’ followed by an echo of colorful curses that Dean starts. “Am I just supposed to pretend like everybody I care about didn’t go through hell - _literally_ – because of them?” he asks, his voice altered slightly by the resonance of the metal plastic, “Cause I don’t think I can just let that go, Cas.”

Castiel is silent because he knows that Dean isn’t finished.

“And, yeah, I get trying to do the right thing and screwing up, but it’s not that easy,” the hunter continues, “And maybe if it was just me, I could let it go, but I spent my whole life protecting Sam, and you… You’re family, man.” He pauses, and Castiel appreciates the chance to revel in the warmth of that proclamation as he exchanges another set of tools. “So, yeah, he lost Gabriel, but if he’d been paying attention… Damn it, Cas, does it make me such a crappy person because I put my family first?”

And that, Castiel thinks, is his prompt to step in because Dean’s penchant for self-depreciation tests the limits of whether or not an angel in a vessel is capable of feeling physically ill. “I have told you on many occasions, Dean Winchester, that you are among the most admirable human beings I have ever had the honor of knowing,” he states, honestly and with an authority the years have worn away at. No matter how far he’s fallen, _this_ is something he knows – will always know. “I hope that someday you will believe that.” 

The noises under the car still. Castiel can sense the relief from Dean that his face isn’t visible, but he fails to realizes that Castiel can see the way his words simultaneously clear Dean’s soul and throw it into turmoil. He frowns at the unwanted effect of the latter. “I believe that you may be under a false impression of Michael,” Castiel tries again because Dean rarely responds well to an abundance of the truth of his opinion of the hunter. It’s easier for Dean if he intersperses positive opinions with objective facts and information. “He isn’t an agent of chaos and destruction,” he continues, “Perhaps he isn’t the most open of beings, but you must understand how difficult leading the entirety of the Host is – the responsibility he assumed.”

Dean snorts a more genuinely amused sound, “Yeah. Wrangling cats with nukes and bad attitudes.”

Castiel… honestly has no idea what domestic felines have to do with it, but he assumes Dean understands. “My point is that his intentions have always been to do what he believes to be the right thing,” he states.

“But he still cut you off, Cas,” Dean counters, “He somehow got Adam to say ‘yes’ when all he wanted was to get away from all this.”

Castiel frowns. They’re valid points, he thinks, but Dean doesn’t have the perspective of seeing Michael as more than just the opposition’s commander. He doesn’t have memories of visiting the new earth under his older brothers’ care before the demands of time changed them all. “We’ve all made difficult decisions in the past to do what we believed to be right,” he replies, “You told me once it’s possible to make the wrong decision for the right reason. Do you care for me any less because I have made mistakes that endanger the world – endangered you and hurt Sam?” It's a sore subject, his time with the Leviathan. He thinks that sometimes he can feel the phantom twist of one of the creatures through his Grace, but he'll easily brave that to prove a point to Dean.

The hunter stops working completely. There’s a slide of wheels as his face appears from under the hood of the car. His gaze searches for Castiel, and the angel meets it with careless ease and familiarity. There’s the strength and determination Castiel has been searching for. It’s enough for his Grace to hum pleasantly beneath his skin and very nearly enough to plant the seeds of a smile.

“You know I don’t,” Dean tells him, tone daring Castiel to contradict him.

Now Castiel allows himself a small smile, but it’s as much to prove his point as it is to show his gratitude for the sentiment. “Then I ask that you extend my brother the same courtesy,” he says simply. Perhaps it’s manipulation to use the title of ‘brother’ to Dean, but he doesn’t think it counts if he genuinely means it. “You’ll find no better ally in this than Michael.”

The hunter thinks it over. Anyone who would take Dean Winchester for a fool, Castiel thinks, is blind. Perhaps his education isn’t quite at the level of Sam or Adam’s, but he’s every bit the tactician as the angel he was intended to be a vessel for, and it fascinates Castiel to watch his soul and features as his mind works.

Dean frowns as he finally comes to his conclusion and slides back under the Impala. “You’re wrong,” he states, “ _You’re_ the best ally we’ve got, Cas. Now stop the chick flicking dammit and gimme the ratchet.”

Castiel smiles softly and hands Dean his tool. “Does this mean that you agree?”

Dean grunts, and the sound of moving metal echoes through the garage. “Guess it can’t hurt to have some big guns on our side for a change,” he mutters, “But I sure as hell ain’t trusting him until he earns his freakin’ halo.”

Castiel is vaguely tempted to point out that ‘earning a halo’ isn’t actually a thing that happens.

He decides that he can allow Dean to have that one, however. 

 

* * *

 

Adam finds Michael after about five minutes of searching the grounds around the Bunker. Of all things, he’s sitting in the grass, ignoring the dew on the ground as he looks up at the stars. He’s a line of tension from his shoulders to his pinched brows and deep-set frown 

...And there’s a circle of four downed trees laying in pieces about six yards away looking very much like an angry yeti got its hands on them. 

Adam blinks but decides not to comment on them. Instead he peels off his jacket and sets it down next to Michael before he takes a seat. The angel does little to acknowledge his presence at first, but Adam knows there’s no way he doesn’t know the human is there.

“Dean can be an ass,” Adam announces unceremoniously, “But he’s not a half bad guy. Just don’t ever tell him I said that, or he’ll never shut up.”

Michael lets out a breath of air that may be an expression of amusement or just an attempt at playing ‘appease the stupid monkey.’ Adam opts for the first option since there’s no elaboration on Michael’s end. Just more staring at some distant object that Adam can’t see. Adam decides that, aside from the local foliage, there isn’t much at risk from an angry smiting, so he sits quietly because, frankly, he doesn’t know what he’d be doing if Sam and Dean weren’t around to distract him from his grief over his mom.

He thinks that nobody should have to grieve alone.

By the time the moon’s made it up a bit higher, Michael sighs in an oddly human gesture. He shifts, but his eyes stay on the starlight that, alright, is pretty freaking awesome this far from town. And then Michael speaks, and his tone is soft and packed with all of the emotion Adam thinks it was missing earlier today. “I resigned myself to ending one brother, and that burden... changed me,” he admits, a wretchedly bitter smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, “To know that my negligence has been the end of Gabriel as well…”

Adam frowns and looks back to the stars,  trying to giving Michael a sense of privacy. Maybe it’s stupid since they’re less than two feet away and they’ve both seen the inside of each other’s’ heads, but still. “Look, I don’t know what happened, but I know if you protected me in the Cage, you would have protected your brother if you could’ve.”

He sees Michael go even tenser out of the corner of his eyes. “No, you don’t know that,” he says in that same flat tone Adam remembers from Stull.

“The last time I saw my mom before the… ghouls, she was making lunch to take to work,” he says, and he thinks his smile is about as humorless and bitter as Michael’s, “She told me to be careful on my way to class. I told her not to treat me like a kid because I was gonna be some big shot doctor one day, and then I’d take care of her instead. I think it hurt her feelings – that she thought she couldn’t provide enough for me – and I was gonna apologize when I got home, but…”

“But your father’s enemies arrived first,” Michael concludes, not unkindly.

Adam swallows past the lump in his throat and nods. “I know she loved me anyway,” he says, fighting hard against his suddenly blurry vision, “Even when I screwed up. That’s what love is.”

The air is heavy with implications. The incoming fog at the tree line looks for a moment like ghosts and phantoms dancing at the edge of the wards, mocking and accusing. Adam composes himself in the silence while Michael contemplates. 

“Her heaven is your last Christmas together,” the angel announces with his typical quiet self-assurance, “She was content when last I visited.”

Adam’s surprise causes him to turn toward Michael again. Cool green eyes are watching him carefully, like there’s something there that’s equally of interest to the stars. Adam somehow doubts that. “Thanks,” he says because something like that probably deserves some statement of gratitude.

Michael nods. His expression returns to the stars, but it’s thoughtful rather than withdrawn. “If you wish to go indoors, you may give your brothers my word I’ve no intention of further destroying their foliage.”

That draws a short laugh from Adam. “That your way of telling me to bug off?” he jokes.

Michael shoots him a confused look, complete with head tilt and drawn brows. “There is a surprising lack of insects in the area, perhaps because of an instinctive response to the wards arou--“

Adam shakes his head and picks himself up. “Figure of speech, buddy,” he corrects as he grabs his jacket.

Adam’s gotten three feet away when Michael calls him again. The blonde stops and half turns to signal that he’s listening. “Never doubt that your soul was worth preserving,” Michael tells him.

Adam heads back in with the odd feeling that he got a whole lot more out of that than he intended to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's the first chapter. As always, thanks for reading my weird ideas. Seriously, I love views. 
> 
> As a side note, I'm shooting for weekly updates, but I do have an internship to juggle and these are probably going to be lengthy chapters. That said, I also have a lot of this story already planned out, and I'm already very close to being at least a chapter ahead. If I can't meet the weekly update quota, I'll be sure to leave you with some sort of warning in the notes (assuming this story actually garners some interest). I have no idea about the general length of this particular story, but I'm thinking now that it's going to at least hit five or six chapters to get in everything I have planned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Check it out! Apparently I’m good to go for updating on time! I just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who left me kudos, bookmarked this, or left the lovely feedback on the first chapter. I apologize for not personally getting back to those who left feedback with my gratitude since I've been on vacation and only just got a little time to post this second chapter. I intend to correct that as soon as I'm back home. It seriously means a ton to me that you guys are interested in reading my writing, and there are simply no words to describe how much I appreciate it. Hopefully this latest chapter can live up to the positive feedback since the plot is going to start rolling.
> 
> As with the last chapter, I don’t have a beta for this story, so, again, please forgive any typos that my re-reading didn’t catch. 
> 
> As for warnings, this chapter has mild language and canon-typical violence toward the last section. And, no, I still have no claim to Supernatural or its characters.

By the time they reconvene, Dean’s got an old t-shirt covered in motor oil, Sam’s managed to come up with a grilled cheese for himself and his brothers, and Adam is fresh out of the shower. Michael’s hair is slightly damp with dew, and there’s a faint trace of oil on Castiel’s coat. Overall, they sort of look like rejects from a screwed up frat party.

Sam’s managed to replace the broken table with one from the armory, and they arrange themselves similarly to earlier that evening. The tension from earlier is still present, but the most recent emotional outburst has apparently acted like a pressure value popping open. Compared to before, it’s almost tolerable when everyone takes roughly the same seating as before. Then again, it might just be that it’s approaching one in the morning. Not that it would really make a difference to their pair of angels, but Adam is admittedly tired, and Dean is occasionally rubbing his right eye. Castiel looks pretty calm while Michael sits up straight and proud with his chin held high. 

It’s weird, but Adam thinks that he’s only noticed how tried and worn down Michael had looked just an hour and half ago when he sees the revitalized, quiet strength and understated self-assurance for the first time in…

Well, technically for the first time with this new face.

“Alright. Questions first,” Dean announces in the middle of a bite of grilled cheese, “Cause I think the humans in the room deserve some answers.”

Michael nods, appeasing. “Very well. What do you wish to know?”

“Not that we aren’t grateful to have Adam back, but why are you in a different vessel? Also, how does that work since Dean and Adam are the only ones that can hold you without burning through?” Sam asks. Dean’s making a face at him like he’s going to be called out for being a nerd, but his own curiosity seems to get the better of him.

There’s a twitch in Michael’s jaw that Adam thinks is an artifact of a repressed grimace. He knows that Michael isn’t really great with wearing human skin; he doesn’t have to wonder why when he remembers what it was like having a living inferno constantly blazing around his soul, barely contained by his skin. He also remembers flickers of Michael’s frustration about the human body’s tendency to display subconscious physical cues. For a guy who prides himself on military command, having obvious signs of discomfort doesn't exactly seem helpful. 

“We were not unaffected by the Fall in the Cage,” Michael replies, his tone carefully calculated in a way that tells Adam there are real emotions under heavy lock down now. There’s an odd moment where he rolls his shoulders and looks vaguely discomforted. It’s weird, and Castiel apparently catches it, too, because he frowns deeply, sympathetic and guilty. “I believe the power drain is why I was able to escape. The Cage was built to hold a being of an archangel’s strength, but it will allow a seraph to pass through its boarders. As a side benefit a less pure bloodline is more than sufficient in a vessel for the moment.”

“So we don’t actually have big guns on our side,” Dean points out. He’s not all that surprised by the looks of it. Adam wonders not for the first time why the hell he signed on for this if bad-to-worse luck is so normal nobody bats an eyelash at it.

Castiel shakes his head. “Perhaps not, but Michael is still far more powerful than the majority of our siblings. Barring, of course, Metatron. His authority is also very nearly absolute among our siblings even now.”

Michael’s eyes narrow strangely for just a flash before that, too, is banished to Repression Land. He tilts his head, eyeing Dean curiously. “Of all Creation, you understand that victory isn’t necessarily bought with brute force,” he comments without even the vaguest hint of doubt, “Regardless, to answer Samuel’s first question is… somewhat more complicated. The basic endpoint is that, even if either of us wished to, I’m incapable of possessing Adam without risking permanent, catastrophic damage to his soul.” 

Adam perks up at that because, damn, that doesn’t sound good. “’The hell does that mean?” he demands. He’s imaging a glowing ball of light held together with duct tape and sheer dumb luck. When it’s the thing he’s banking his continued existence on, it understandably sort of sucks. 

His expression probably shows Michael exactly how disturbed he is by that because his eyes soften slightly. “It means that human souls aren’t intended to survive the duress of hell as long as yours did without changing. The fact that you were in constant proximity to my brother’s tainted Grace only worsened matters.” 

“Meaning we should both be demons,” Sam conjectures, grim and uncomfortable. There’s no real surprise there though, and that startles Adam more than the conversation itself. It’s like Sam’s already decided that he’s something dark and twisted. Like he’s just waiting on somebody to call him out on it.

_Damn_. And Adam thought he had some latent issues.

“You all three have incredibly resilient souls,” Michael tells them before his attention zeros in on Sam, “My brother took pains to ensure you weren’t transformed – I assume as a point of pride.” He turns slightly to address Adam. “Pieces of your soul were being tainted despite my protection. I stopped that process with my Grace.” 

Castiel straightens up in his seat, shooting a disbelieving, narrowed eyed look between Michael and Adam. Dean catches it and frowns. If anything’s obvious, it’s that he doesn’t like being in the dark. “Obviously it’s not that easy,” Dean prompts, taking his cue from Castiel. 

“No,” Castiel agrees, “What you’re suggestion is nearly impossible. Not with a human.”

Michael’s hint of a smile doesn’t have anything akin to mirth in it, “I had a very long time to think on that.”

“Okay, English for those of us who are metaphysically impaired,” Adam demands, “What the hell did you do to my soul? And if you say ‘it’s complicated,’ I’m gonna punch you, and then you’re gonna heal my broken hand, and I'll ask you again.” 

Michael’s probably debating the psychological implications of that comment even while he gives in. “I tore out a fraction of my Grace and infused it into your soul to fight the taint. If a demon attempts to possess you, it will burn out. If an angel attempt to possess you, the Grace will react violently on instinct.”

Castiel looks about as close as Adam’s ever seen him to a grimace. It actually sounds painful, especially with the vague concept he’s gotten of Grace from Michael’s head. “So you’re working with even less juice because of me?” he asks.

“It wasn’t that significant an amount,” Michael replies dismissively. Maybe a little too dismissively.

That doesn’t exactly make Adam feel any better about it. Then again he’s not really sure he’s going to say that Michael shouldn’t have done it either because Dean had a legitimate point earlier: he’d been enjoying his stupid, corny afterlife just fine before all this shit went down. “So you’re fine?” he asks, not bothering to back down. Maybe it’s stupid, and maybe there should be a saying somewhere about challenging an archangel to a stare down, but he’s got a pretty decent working understanding of Michael.

And apparently he doesn’t play it safe much more than his stupid brothers do. 

Michael frowns his disapproval, but there isn’t any smiting or demands for respect. It takes a minute of the staring before there’s an unashamed pronouncement of “No.” He refolds his hands on the table, regrouping. “But that is Metatron’s doing – not yours.”

Adam narrows his eyes and tells himself to ask later when Michael isn’t in ‘Project a strong face to the former enemy camp’ mode.

“So this plan of yours,” Dean prompts again, “How’s it gonna work?”

Michael leans back, looking marginally more comfortable now that they're back to business. “There’s a rite given only to Gabriel, Raphael, Lucifer, and myself. The plan will need to be altered as, originally, the rite required at least two of us to complete. I intended to seek out Gabriel considering Raphael…” His eyes slide to Castiel, who frowns and finds a sudden interest in the table top. “Regardless, if I pour all of my Grace into the rite, it should still be successful.”

Castiel’s stare goes grim and lifts back to Michael. “You mean it will kill you,” he announces bluntly, “Our siblings will not yield to anything but the authority of an archangel, Michael. Even if they return to heaven, the fighting will continue without a reason for a decisive consensus.”

The twitch in Michael’s jaw is back with a vengeance. This time, he isn’t all that successful at holding back the flash of frustration and other emotions that draw themselves into the lines of his face. “And what, Castiel, does it say about my leadership that _this_ is the result of a lack of direct orders?” he asks, tone quiet and sharp as a knife for it.

“Going with Sex Hair on this one,” Adam pipes up, because it’s way too early in the morning to be dealing with another half-assed plan revolving around self-sacrifice. …And if he secretly enjoys the look of confusion he gets from Castiel and the narrowed-eyed look he gets from Dean at the moniker, he figures he earned that much for being there in the first place. “None of you idiots ever learned that the first rule of emergency response is to take care of yourself so you’re still around to help the other idiots who got into trouble in the first place. Seriously. What is it with the knee-jerk reaction to throw yourselves on the fire?" 

“Sometimes you don’t have a choice,” Sam says, quiet and solemn.

Michael blinks and eyes Sam like he’s looking at someone completely different, but that's gone with a frown a few seconds later. “What would you have me do?” he asks Adam, “I only have one brother left capable of completing the rite, and I assure you he will find this situation hilarious rather than alarming.”

Sam’s frown deepens, and he’s got a weird look in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I ‘would have’ you look for some other options first,” Adam replies sternly, “Sure, if that’s all there is, fine. Do what you want. But _dying_ is usually the last resort. Because _it sucks_.”

There’s a silence that envelops the table. It’s tense and awkward again, and Adam takes the time to pick at his sandwich like it doesn’t bother him just to be stubborn and prove a point. Castiel clears his throat and shuffles in a way that reminds Adam that he’s been human at one point. “I believe Adam has a point,” he announces, “We should seek out alternative methods while we acquire the artifacts we may need for the rite.” His eyes turn to Michael, fearless and set. “Is that not an acceptable strategy?”

The eldest angel eyes his younger brother appraisingly, like he’s updating his expectations. The moment feels almost private, for all of the humans crowded around the same table. “Very well,” he finally agrees, “However, I still suggest you keep my return quiet for the moment. Metatron isn’t aware of the rite, but we should take no unnecessary chances.”

Castiel nods, but his expression says that they’ve already had that particular argument. There’s a few minutes of details passed between the angels and hunters that Adam tunes out for the most part since he has no idea what they’re talking about aside from boring logistics. By the time he’s finished off his slightly singed grilled cheese, there’s a silent understanding that the team is dismissing for the night. Sam and Dean offer to let Castiel use a guest room. Naturally, he declines on account of a lack of need to sleep, but he does end up hesitantly agreeing to stay in the Bunker for the night until they can come up with a real game plan.

By the time that’s all worked out, Michael’s nowhere to be found in the room. Adam takes a page out his book, dumps his plate in the sink, and heads off to bed before they have to fight another two a.m. existential crisis or some shit.

That night, he dreams of an inferno blazing bright and warm in a fathomless, frozen wasteland of darkness and nightmares.

 

* * *

 

Apparently Adam showing up at the Bunker door is the first in a long line of strange sights around the Winchester home base, Sam decides the next morning. He’s tried, with the last echoes of nameless fire and fear lingering from his most recent nightmares and is really only about half awake by the time he walks into the living room. That said, he’s awake enough to not miss the quiet hum of the TV, which draws his attention because he’s sure no one left if on last night. Naturally he goes to investigate.

And there, sitting on the couch, are Michael and Castiel, watching a rerun of _My Cat from Hell_.

Sam stares like time is going to force the visual to make any semblance of sense. It doesn’t. Instead, he starts noticing details, like how Castiel seems to have somehow gotten ahold of one of Dean’s old t-shirts and jogging pants (probably from his last stay at the Bunker) and how Michael has apparently ditched his vessel’s sweater and ended up with gray college sporting team shirt.

To Sam’s credit, they both look as utterly perplexed by the show as Sam does by them. Both angels are in complete head tilt mode. For the first time since Sam has known Castiel, he can almost find the family resemblance, which is... weird. 

“Phone,” Adam’s voice, rough from sleep, prompts to his left. Sam obeys and ends up getting a picture of the scene for his trouble, as well as a tired but smug smirk from his younger brother. Smiles from Adam are about as rare as from any Winchester, so Sam’s pretty pleased to see this one and reminds himself to pick Adam up some faked documentation and a phone. He figures it probably won’t hurt to do the same for Michael to avoid more awkward indents with the authorities.

They catch the tail end of a conversation between the two angels involving the words “Do they honestly assume these are hell spawn?” and “Dean insists that ‘herding cats’ is nearly impossible” on the way out. Apparently the capacity to be simultaneously confused, amused, and alarmed by humanity hasn’t missed Michael any more than it had Castiel, even if he managed to somehow miss the ‘socially awkward’ bit that’s purely Castiel.

Honestly, it’s just good to see Castiel socializing with one of his siblings without strategy being discussed or violence being contemplated against either party.

By the time Sam and Adam return to the Bunker, the couch is suspiciously vacant. Adam don’t question it; he just flops down and goes back to sleep as usual until the smell of bacon heralds in the actual morning for him. Dean is still asleep, so Sam heads into the library to get a head start on some research for the various artifacts Michael listed for the rite. 

Naturally that’s when the aforementioned angel decides to approach him by sliding into the seat across the table with a “Pleasant morning, Samuel.”

“It’s just Sam,” the middle Winchester corrects automatically before he opts to catch his place in the Men of Letters text and meet Michael’s gaze. He honestly hasn’t expected this. Given Lucifer’s interest in Sam, he’d assumed that Michael would at least be curious about Dean and just barely tolerant, if anything, of Sam. “Did you need something?”

Michael nods, cool eyes watching the hunter with the constantly ongoing assessment and calculation. It'd be unnerving if Sam wasn't used to it at this point. “I wished to speak to you about Gabriel’s horn,” he replies, tone even and carefully crafted, “When I sent scouts to locate my brother, I believe he abandoned the weapon to avoid detection because I created a means to track it many millennia ago." 

Sam blinks away his surprise because, seriously, he’s never really heard of angelic weapons having some sort of supernatural lojack before. “Did you think he was going to leave then?” he asks because it’s one of the only reasons he can think of for such a spell.

Michael smiles, but it’s bitter, and his eyes remain guarded. “No,” he replies bluntly, “You’ve met my brother. Unless he changed drastically, I doubt you’d find it surprising that he had a habit of being… distracted by the new earth and its creatures – to the point of occasionally misplacing the horn.”

Oh. No wonder the smile wasn’t entirely happy. It hadn’t been the military commander trying to keep track of a powerful soldier; just an older brother trying to keep the younger from losing a precious possession. And damn. Apparently Sam in the same boat because he smiles humorlessly, too. “Yeah. Somehow I don’t really have a problem picturing that.” This was, after all, the same guy who’d been so enamored with TV he’d snapped the Winchesters into screwed up soap operas, knew classic rock, and made pop culture references on par with Dean. Sure, maybe it’s a little weird to have proof that Gabriel had been just as curious about the beginnings of life as with crappy pornos, but… it’s really not that much of a leap. “So what do you need to find it?”

“A few typical spell ingredient: lavender, salt, and the like,” Michael replies, “The difficult part would typically be finding something touched by my brother’s Grace, but I appear to be fortunate on that account.”

“There’s something around the Bunker of Gabriel’s?” Sam asks. It’s a pretty weird thought, especially since Castiel hadn’t pointed it out. It feels off, like the room holding some of Kevin’s things that neither he nor Dean try to tread on yet.

“Not precisely,” Michael replies, the amusement in the lines of his vessel’s face less tainted by loss this time, “Moreso someone Gabriel evidentially trusted and wished to protect.”

Sam frowns. To his knowledge, Gabriel never met Adam. So… “No offense, but why would he want to protect Dean?” he asks, “He was all for the big showdown being over and done with before the last time we met.”

Michael’s amusement fades into curiosity. “He didn’t leave a mark on Dean; that would be Castiel’s doing,” he answers, “I suspect the gift of Grace he left on your soul is ultimately what aided you in regaining control of your body at Stull Cemetery. You should know it’s impossible for a human to overpower Lucifer or myself – much less both of us at once.”

Sam’s struck mute for several minutes.

He doesn’t… _feel_ any different. Sure, he gets defensive about Grace going anywhere near his soul after numerous incidents of possession, but this is… different somehow.

Maybe because it’s something Castiel has apparently gifted to Dean. Sam isn’t blind. It’s hard to miss the complicated knot of emotions surrounded his older brother and their one good friend and ally. Something that’s a part of that bond… Maybe it isn’t something to be categorized as an intrusion: especially with the way Michael talks about it like an honor. If it helped him fight back and gain control... 

And then it clicks.

Gabriel, for all his carefree bravado, was quick witted with eons of strategy and experience packed in his mind. He probably had a good idea of what kind of shit Sam would pull to get the devil back in the box. He tells himself it was strategy and nothing personal – that he didn’t have an angel rooting specifically for him on the sidelines.

“Okay,” Sam says, pulling himself together again, “What do I need to do?”

Michael’s frown deepens like he has some idea of what’s going on in Sam’s head. Come to think of it, he probably does, which prompts an answering frown from the human. “Very little. A few drops of blood at most,” he replies, “There will be no side effects since Gabriel is… gone.” Given the hitch in speech, it sounds like he's still trying to come to terms with the fresh loss.

Sam nods. It’s not a hard choice considering they may need the horn, and the risk is worth it not falling into Metatron's hands. Besides, Sam has bled for a lot less. “Okay. Dean and I can pull whatever else you need from the armory. Once we get a lead on the horn, we’ll go from there,” he decides.

Michael at least seems pleased with that response. He stands up from heads toward the door but pauses just short of walking into the hallway. “Being marked with an angel’s Grace willingly is not small matter, Sam,” he says solemnly, “Gabriel wouldn’t have done so if he hadn’t seen something in you worth fighting for.”

He’s smart because he’s gone before Sam has time to gather a counter argument. The hunter frowns down at the page depicting an artist’s rendering of Gabriel’s horn. Instead of feeling honored or proud, he feels the strangest pang of loss for something that never actually had time to take place.

 

* * *

  

Dean’s seen a lot of crazy shit in his years. Pretty understandable given that he, Sam, Bobby, and Castiel pretty much subverted the premature Apocalypse. So, in the grand scheme of things, watching Michael and Sam conjure up of some magic artifact detector isn’t really enough to get him to bat an eyelash. Adam looks pretty enthralled by the pomp and ceremony though. Poor kid looks like he’s living some screwed up Harry Potter fantasy. 

When Dean says as much, he gets a scowl aimed in his direction. Naturally, being the good big brother he is, Dean grins proudly at a job well done. Adam just rolls his eyes and turns his attention back just in time to watch Michael heal over the bleeding slice on Sam’s forearm. Since he apparently isn’t rising to the bait for another exchange of sarcasm, Dean turns to find Castiel watching the proceedings, too. He’s got a vacant look in his eyes like he isn’t actually paying attention, so Dean decides to let Sam and Adam nerd out for a while. “You coming with us?” he asks Castiel.

The angel blinks like he’s just turning his attention back to his immediate surroundings and turns to the hunter. He nods solemnly, “Yes. I believe I would like to ensure that the horn is safe.”

Honestly, that settles some of the disquietude in Dean. Michael may be playing nice so far, but a long history of getting stabbed in the back tells Dean that doesn’t mean jack shit in the grand scheme of things. Besides, they haven’t seen much of Castiel since he’s been off… doing whatever he’s been doing. It’s not that weird to want to catch up with his best friend, especially now that Castiel is just as grounded as the Winchesters.

“Good,” Dean tells him. It gets him a small smile from Castiel, which is… It’s good. Castiel really doesn’t do the smiling thing as much these days. Which, in retrospect, is a freaking weird thing for Dean to notice.

Castiel opens his mouth to reply, but Sam chooses that moment to drop like a rock, narrowly missing his head clipping the table on the way down.

For a second, nobody moves. Michael is first, dropping into a crouch and pressing two fingers to Sam’s forehead. Sam’s muttering words Dean doesn’t understand, but it damn sure sounds a lot like Enochian. From the way Castiel goes stock-still to his left, it looks like the guess is about right. Adam is kneeling on Sam’s other side, preemptively grabbing Sam’s wrist before he can lash out and forces it to the ground with his full weight. Dean crouches and catches Sam’s feet before one of them can crash into the table. He hears a _crack_ that sounds painful and looks up just in time to see Sam’s free hand dropping from where it looks like he’s blindly clubbed Michael across the jaw to no actual effect. 

The archangel himself is murmuring rapidly in the ancient language like he’s trying to sooth Sam or curse him a blue streak. It’s just the fact that his eyes are wide and wild with unrestrained confusion and shock that keeps Dean from cracking out the accusations.

Whatever's going on, Michael is just as caught off guard by it as they are.

“C’mon Sammy,” Dean pleads, because _shit_. He’s _so_ tired of the other shoe knocking them down like bugs in the dirt, “ _C’mon_.”

Apparently Dean _really_ needs to learn to be careful what he wishes for because Sam goes terrifyingly limp seconds later. Something dark and cold condenses in the pit of his stomach. Then Sam sucks in a breath, and this time it’s Dean who goes boneless with relief.

“…Dean? You’re crushing my ankles,” the bastard has the nerve to grumble.

Dean forces his fingers to ease up on their grip and slaps the side of Sam’s leg. “Shut up, Sleeping Beauty,” he counters, “If you hadn’t gone all Exorcist on us, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

It’s about then that Dean notices that Michael is breathing deep and strangely with his pupils blown wide. He hasn’t actually moved since Sam’s last round of gibberish, and his fingers are still raised an inch or two above Sam’s forehead. When he catches Dean staring, he attempts to school his features and fails miserably. He draws his hand back but continues to examine Sam, “What did you see?” 

Something in his tone raises Dean’s hackles because it sounds more like an order than a question. “Back off, man,” he interjects, “This is _your_ fault.”

“This is _important_ ,” Michael snaps, all fury and righteousness. It just makes Dean even angrier because he _knows_ that tone, and he’s so sick of it dammit.

“Everybody _shut up_ ,” Adam cuts in before he turns his attention to Sam, “You okay?”

Sam has the guts to look vaguely surprised by the show of defensiveness from their little brother. Honestly though, Dean’s pretty shocked by it, too, especially when he’s been working under the impression that Adam is only still with them because it’s freaking hard to come back from being technically dead for a few years.

“Yeah,” Sam replies, pushing himself to sit up, “I’m good. Just… What the hell happened?”

“Interference,” Michael answers, “A far more powerful source of energy must have latched onto the connection.” He lets out a quiet sigh and visibly seals the fractured cracks in his control. “Which is why I need to know what you saw,” he concludes with a meaningful glance toward Dean, “When you’re able.”

Sam nods and looks at his lap. He swallows, brows dawns as he gathers his thoughts. “Fire and light,” he says, voice rough but steady, “It was in a room. Probably a warehouse. There were sigils all over the walls, floor, and ceiling. I didn’t recognize most of them.”

Michael nods slowly.

“What was he saying?” Adam asks. The kid looks sort of pale, but he’s holding up well considering this is probably the first time he’s watched a fully grown man collapse into a fit and start muttering angelic language. He’s even asking the right questions, which sparks a familiar sense of pride in Dean’s chest in place of the cold fear from minutes before.

Michael’s frown deepens as he meet’s Adam’s eyes. “‘Help me, giant one. You’re my only hope.’”

“The phrasing was somewhat more… unorthodox and doesn't lend well to translation,” Castiel adds in helpfully, “I know very few angels who speak like that.”

It clicks then in Dean’s head. He’s said it before: nobody gets that upset unless it’s about family, especially since Michael apparently puts Dean to shame with the whole emotional constipation thing. The bastard even looks vaguely ashamed of the fact that he lost it even as little as he did. And, yeah, the semi-Star Wars reference isn’t exactly lost on Dean, because he's guessing there's not really a way to say Obi-wan Kenobi in Enochian. “You think it’s Gabriel,” he accuses. 

When Michael clams up, Castiel takes over, “The spell could have only been interrupted by a number of forces in Creation, but none of them would have been capable of influencing Sam aside from Gabriel.”

Dean… honestly isn’t surprised that Gabriel, the little shit, somehow survived the Apocalypse and chose not to send them a postcard. Still… Old paranoia dies hard. “We’ve seen Metatron do some unbelievable crap with those tablet power ups,” he points out, “Even if it is Gabriel, whoever has him has the firepower to pin down an archangel who’s really good at pulling Houdini acts.”

“He’s my brother, and I have failed him enough as it is,” Michael announces as he gets to his feet.

Damn. Dean’s heard that one enough times in his own head that it’s weird when someone else says it.

"We should help him, Dean,” Sam speaks up. His face is already set, and the stubborn expression is one that Dean’s all too friggin’ familiar with. Sam has already made up his mind, and asking Dean is pretty much just a courtesy at this point. “I’m not saying we owe him, but… Gabriel gave us our out." 

He doesn’t even have to ask Castiel to know what he thinks about this. “…Fine,” he gives in, “But we do this the smart way. Got any idea where we’re heading in the first place?”

“Indiana,” Michael announces, “You have a point, Dean. Best to be prepared for a trap.”

 

* * *

 

The road trip is understandably awkward. It’s probably not as bad as it could be since they end up taking two cars in anticipation of bringing an extra person back to the Bunker. Adam chooses sanity and ends up riding with Sam and Michael while Castiel and Dean pack into Dean’s precious - and admittedly nice - Chevy Impala. Adam rides in the back so he has enough room to stretch his legs out to the side with a massive first aid field manual laid out on his lap. 

With brothers like Sam and Dean, he figures it’s a pretty safe bet that it’ll come in handy.

Michael apparently doesn’t care that Adam’s feet are settled in the seat between them and focuses on deciphering the sketches Sam made the night before. He scratches notes around the sigils themselves, explaining what they are, what they do, and generally makes corrections to ones that Sam’s memory has blurred slightly. Adam is already labeling it the beginning of the Angelpedia project, but he thinks that gem of humor is probably more Dean’s speed than Sam or Michael’s.

Adam ends up dosing off to the sound of pencil scratching somewhere around the Missouri boarder right around the time he finishes up leg splints in his book. By the time they stop for gas again, it’s noon, and Sam’s already in the store. Michael has apparently put away the Angelpedia notebook and has taken to staring unseeingly out of the window. Considering that he doesn’t blink in the half a minute it takes Adam to fully wake up, it’s getting sort of eerie. “Dude. People don’t stare directly into the sun,” Adam points out, voice rough with sleep, “It’s weird.” He shuffles a bit in the manner of people who are to damn cramped in a car to actually get much done.

Oh. And apparently he’s managed to plant his feet in Michael’s lap at some point during the past hour or two. Awkward, especially since neither of them are mentioning it. But, hey. What the hell? If Michael isn’t going to mention it, Adam sure isn’t; the humans in the car actually have to worry about getting sore muscles while his angel mojo probably means he doesn’t.

Thankfully, Michael turns to him, head tilted in curiosity. “You know I’m not human. Why pretend otherwise?” he asks.

Apparently the questions are a thing with him. Adam’s starting to realize that it’s less about getting more information, and therefore more control, of a given situation and more of a compulsion to understand. “Because the people standing outside can see you,” Adam finally answers, “And people historically get pretty upset when things don’t line up with perceptions.”

“You didn’t,” Michael counters without hesitation, “Perhaps at first, but not now.”

Adam stares uncomprehending for a few seconds. When it registers that Michael is talking about the whole vessel bullshit, he frowns. “Okay, ground rules: it’s not fair to ask a guy to analyze his psyche a minute and a half after he wakes up,” he replies dryly. Michael goes quiet, but it’s more than apparent by the pinch in his brow that he’s still trying to figure out the answer to his question.

Adam sighs and stuffs one of Dean’s old jackets behind his head as a pillow. It smells like gunpowder and motor oil, and it really shouldn’t be something his stupid subconscious is starting to associate with home and safety. “What else am I supposed to do?” he asks, “Shout about how I get screwed over at the sky? What good is that actually gonna do?”

“Very little,” Michael replies with a hint of bitterness, eyeing the foliage on the other side of the road.

It draws a huff of amusement from Adam. “Remind me to explain rhetorical questions,” he tacks on before he gets serious again, “Seriously though. Yeah, you guys screwed me over pretty good, but you didn’t leave me there to rot either, so that’s… something.”

Michael frowns thoughtfully. He turns back to Adam and puts a hand on his ankle. The only thing that makes it more intimate than awkward is the assurance staring out from green eyes. And, naturally, the moment Adam realizes he's used the word 'intimate' in his own head in relation to Michael, it gets awkward anyway. “Castiel was correct. I believe I have misjudged humanity,” he announces, “There is much to be learned from your strengths.” 

Before Adam has time to ask what the hell he means by that or why he decided to tell Adam, Sam slides back into the driver’s seat with an offering of snack foods, gas station sandwiches, and water. By the time the two of them sort out who gets what, Michael is back to looking out the window, and the moment is gone. 

Adam stubbornly decides not to move his feet though, especially when the slightly-warmer-than-strictly-human hand on his ankle really shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is.

 

* * *

  

“Your brother is a douchenozzel.”

In all honestly, Castiel has been expecting this conversation for roughly four hours. Those hours, of course, have been full of several stories from the latest round of Winchester hunts, an admission of Dean’s secret pride in his youngest brother’s progress, his pride in Sam at stepping up to becoming an older brother in his own rite, and a few stories of Castiel’s own. It’s more than pleasant to listen to the cadences of Dean’s voice without the tint of frustration and fear clouding it over.

With the inevitable change in conversation, the frustration has returned, along with a healthy dose of confusion.

“Which brother are you referring to?” he asks. Honestly, he isn’t sure. He suspects Michael because he continues to simultaneously defy some of Dean’s expectations and fit directly in line with others. Metatron is source of mutual frustration, of course. There’s also now the addition of Gabriel, who’s unannounced return and presumable request for help could be the trigger.

“You really want me to answer that, Cas?” Dean asks, brows lifted to emphasize the dryness of his tone. Castiel frowns because even he can’t excuse the mistakes made by his kin. He doesn’t want to. “Gabriel,” Dena finally announces, “He could have at least _told_ us he was alive – at least you, man. Probably could have stopped that civil war with Raphael.”

“I doubt that,” Castiel admits honestly, “While those formerly under Gabriel’s command are undoubtedly loyal, many were disillusioned with his choice to leave.” He remembers the strain the years put on his brother. The way the once cheerful beacon of laughter and mischief began humming more and more constantly with stress and discord. He isn’t entirely sure he’d wish that burden back on Gabriel’s shoulders, but… “The support would have been appreciated, however,” he admits.

Dean sighs and shakes his head. “Guess it doesn’t matter.” He glances at Castiel briefly before he turns his eyes back on the road. He seems to be debating whether or not to bring up whatever is on his mind at the moment. Eventually the curiosity wins out. “You’d tell me if you were in trouble, right?”

The question takes Castiel so far off guard he isn’t sure how to reply for a moment. “I don’t understand,” he admits, “Why would I be ‘in trouble?’”

Dean shakes his head and readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “The Metatron thing,” he explains, “He sure seems pretty hip on trying to take you down personally. And between us? You and I don’t have a great track record when we keep secrets from each other.”

Castiel thinks of the Leviathan and promptly puts the matter in the back of his mind. The echo of disquietude through his Grace is nothing like the sharp tug of hurt now that he knows how to feel it. He’s learned many unsettling things about feelings during his time as a human. “My odds of success are… slim,” he replies honestly, “Less so if we truly are able to retrieve Gabriel. Even if the Gates are opened, there will be a battle – one that you and Sam cannot possibly assist me in. That is what unsettles me most about this.”

Dean’s features shift into surprise, “Why?” He hunches in his seat. The physical responses are similar to those when Dean prepares to take a physical punch. It always surprises Castiel to some small extent the place of honor his opinion has been given to this one special human - perhaps even more so that the sentiment is returned.

Castiel finds Dean's gaze at the red light. For a moment, the nostalgia is overpowering, like the days they were running from Heaven and Hell, before the betrayals and rough patches. He remembers what it felt like to have faith that this human, whose soul he cradled carefully against Grace in the fires of perdition, could do anything. He realizes that he’s never really forgotten that: that a similar faith has been extended to the rest of their unorthodox family.

“Because in all of Creation, there is no one I trust more at my side,” he replies, willing Dean to understand.

There’s something there in the surprise that evens out the lines of stress in his features. He clears his throat and nods, “Thanks, man.”

Someone presses the horn of their car behind them.

Apparently they’ve missed the light, but perhaps that isn't the most important missed opportunity at hand.

 

* * *

 

 Michael leads them to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. He also suggests that they drive through it and pick a base of operations somewhere in the next town over to strategize and keep the element of surprise. Even working on power saver mode, Michael is apparently still a beacon to pretty much anything that senses that sort of thing. They end up pulling into a trashy hotel on the outskirts of town in the wee hours of the morning. Sam tells the angels to stay outside while he goes inside and reserves a room with two beds and a fold out couch.

Michael ends up helping a groggy, half-asleep Adam into the room. Sam doesn’t really blame Adam since he’d taken the last shift driving to give Sam a break. Not everybody is used to pulling drives through multiple states in one day on a regular basis. What _does_ surprise him, however, is the casual ease between the pair of them. Adam isn’t exactly against personal space, but the scars of hell are still there. It’s odd enough to see him totally at ease while he’s still half asleep, and it reminds Sam of Castiel and Dean even though the dynamic is completely different.

The night is ultimately uneventful with the humans wrung out from the road and the angels respectful of that. By the time everyone wakes up the next morning, Michael and Castiel have apparently scoped out the territory a little better, and everyone has their game face on when they reconvene.

Oddly enough, Dean and Michael get along strangely well when they’re just discussing logistics. When Michael suggests they split into teams, Dean organizes it. He and Michael volunteer to hang back since Michael is a self-admitted beacon, Sam has the ability to become a Gabriel detector hardwired into his blood, and Adam has some actual EMT training even if he’d technically died before he had the chance to use it. Castiel is assigned to the retrieval team in case they need angelic backup on hand.

Adam, surprisingly, agrees without any complaints, even when Dean pins his gaze with a look of his own and asks if he’s sure. The blonde just stares back at him and replies with a “Why the hell do you think I’ve been reading your weirdass books? Just for fun?”

Within half an hour, Sam is sitting in front of Michael with his arm laid out on the table between them while Dean introduces Adam to the weapons cache in the back of the Impala. “I can transfer the tracking spell for an hour and a half at a time,” he explains, “If you find the source of the interference, the spell with dissolve on its own. If not, it will simply revert back to me, but a second attempt could easily give away our intentions.”

Sam nods, and Michael draws a symbol on the skin on Sam’s arm with his index finger. Fiery Grace trails behind the feather-light touch, etching elegant lines of rose gold just below the inside of Sam’s elbow. The second the sleek lines of the simple horn are in place, Sam feels the tug like a string around his soul. It feels like it’s pulled tight to the point of snapping, and he gets the sense that it’s been thinning out for a long time.

When he meets Michael’s eyes, there’s a silent understanding there. If this _is_ Gabriel, he’s in serious trouble, and this is probably their only shot to help him. “If you meet more resistance than you can handle alone, pray. I’ll hear you,” Michael instructs before the warrior gives way to something more personal, “And Sam? If it’s possible, please bring my brother back to me.”

Sam nods, and they’re off less than ten minutes later. Castiel has already somehow gotten ahold of a list of warehouses in town, which should narrow down the scope of their search significantly. It takes twenty minutes to actually get into town, leaving them with a little over an hour to get a lock on whatever is clinging by a finger to Sam’s soul.

The first warehouse is ruled out before they even get out of the car. “Doesn’t feel right,” Sam says by way of explanation as they pass it by. It says something that neither Castiel nor Adam question it.

Before they even get to the second warehouse, Sam is sure that they’re close. They ditch the car nearby and continue on foot. The closer they get, the more the thin thread turns into a rope and then a net, pulling Sam in like gravity. It _should_ be eerie. He _should_ be reminded of how his entire perception of the world had been submerged in Lucifer’s frozen Grace. At the very least, it should feel like the trap his paranoia tells him this is.

Instead, it feels warm and curious. Where Michael’s Grace is a wildfire, this is more like sunlight: no less dangerous in its own right, but more radiant and innately curious, like it wants to illuminate more than burn. He’s never felt Gabriel’s Grace, but he thinks that this would suit him.

The second they get within sight range of the warehouse walls, Castiel’s awkward posture smoothens out in a way that means trouble is ahead. Sure enough, he has his blade in his hand when Sam looks, which prompts Adam to pull out the extra angel blade that Dean had given him for the occasion. Sam goes for his own just in case. “There are angels guarding the area,” Castiel announces, “Three to the west and two more to the east.”

Sam nods and looks toward Adam, “Stay near Cas.” It’s safer, and Sam doesn’t feel any shred of shame admitting that Castiel’s Grace and millennia as a soldier make him far more equipped to watch a new hunter’s back.

By the time they’re at the door, they’re met by two women and a man in neatly pressed dress clothes. One of the women, a brunette, steps forward and eyes the group distastefully. “Castiel,” she greets him, “You’ve made a mistake bringing your pets here.”

“Please, sister. Stand aside,” Castiel replies, even though it’s clear in his eyes that he’s already grieving the loss of another sibling, “You know who you guard.”

“Metatron has promised us our return to heaven,” the angel tells him, desperation fanatically bright behind the smugness in her tone, “Gabriel _abandoned_ us. He would have left us to rot.”

“Obviously he’s lying to you, lady,” Adam cuts in, “What kind of dumbass masochist sides with the guy who kicked you out and shut the doors in the first place?” 

Sam winces internally when the angel’s eyes shift to his younger brother. Whatever righteous retort she’d been about to dish out falls silent to a look of horror and confusion. “What fresh abomination is this?” she demands from Castiel.

Sam lifts his blade on a protective instinct, but Adam’s bland expression stops him in his tracks. It… doesn’t even bother him from the look of it. If anything he looks bored, and it’s only on second inspection that he sees the way Adam’s hand shakes ever so slightly around the hilt of the angel blade. “Step aside, or we’ll have no choice but to fight,” Castiel warns.

Apparently that’s all of the provocation they need. The brunette lunges at Castiel, and the other two follow suit, one after each hunter. Sam cuts under the sweep of a sword and takes a kick to the stomach instead. It’s enough to knock the breath out of him and send him crashing a few feet back. He catches the sound of metal clashing nearby as he swings out at the approaching angel. It puts enough distance between them for Sam to get back to even footing.

He can’t risk a banishing sigil for Castiel’s sake as well as Gabriel’s. They’re stuck fighting this the hard way.

He’s lashing out with his angel blade when he catches Adam’s opponent getting in too close for comfort. He sees the spray of blood, but the wound itself is shallow and probably won' even need stitches. If Sam were still the praying sort, he probably would have shot one up about how well his little brother takes the hit and keeps moving…

…with a seriously uncanny ease and fluidity. Like he’d been born with a sword in his hand, completely different than the awkward pile of limbs that Sam and Dean take turns mock sparring in the armory. It’s freaky enough that it draws Sam’s attention away just long enough to catch an angel blade across the forearm from a misjudged step.

A flash of Grace blasts dots across Sam’s vision. A glance at the aftermath tells him that Castiel has won his skirmish and is now heading toward Sam. Sam opens his mouth to tell him to help Adam instead, but that’s about the time the blonde ducks right under his opponent’s guard and slams a hand to the guy’s forehead. Blue light floods out of the vessel’s eyes and mouth. It’s only the fact that Sam’s opponent is as shocked by the sight as Sam that the older hunter doesn’t get stabbed in the gut while he registers what exactly is going on.

It’s a damn  _smiting_.

Light floods Sam’s eyes from a few feet away for several seconds before a hand clamps over them and plunges him into darkness. “…am. _Sam_ ,” Castiel’s rough voice calls him back to earth as he pulls his hand away and vanishes his blade.

Sam can only stare dumbly at Adam where he kneels, breathing heavily in front of the body of an empty vessel. A vessel a human somehow just went Biblical on. “Cas?” Sam asks because he’s not even sure he knows how to put everything running through his head into the form of a question.

“That was Michael’s Grace,” Castiel replies as he touches two fingers to Sam’s forehead. The colorful dots in front of his vision fade away, and he follows Castiel dumbly to kneel in front of Adam.

Blue eyes meet Sam’s, wild with the pupils constricted to tiny pinpricks. Adam’s pale, sweating, and still panting like he’s just run a marathon. “Sam?” he asks, voice rough and confused. For a second, Sam is transported back a few weeks to the day he opened the door to find his little brother’s miraculous return from the Cage. Instead of questions about what just happened, the blonde’s features scrunch. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he warns miserably.

It takes him a few minutes to compose himself enough to get back to his feet with Castiel’s help. As soon as he can, he urges them with a sour “go on” and forces himself to keep walking, even if he needs something to lean on to keep from falling over completely. It’s slowing them down, but Sam doesn’t dare suggest they split up after that incident.

Getting inside the warehouse isn’t that hard. Sam has had a lifetime of picking locks in the past, and this one isn’t even on the top ten. The real security measures, of course, are the anti-angel sigils carved into the walls. It’s sort of unnerving in a B-grade horror movie way. Castiel starts looking as vaguely uncomfortable as Adam, but he pushes on until he abruptly comes to a halt in front of the inside door.

“I can’t go any further, Sam,” he says, adjusting Adam’s weight against his side, “And there are far too many sigils inside for you to destroy before reinforcements arrive.”

Which means they’re in over their heads again, and Sam’s going to need to improvise. Because if angels can’t get inside the room, Sam is willing to bet any trapped inside can’t get out, either. “Update Michael, okay?” he requests from Adam, “Don’t call for help yet.”

Adam nods and winces like the movement has made the vertigo worse.

With a well-placed kick, the door gives and crashes inward. Just like the dream, the walls, floor, and ceiling are etched with sigils in every spare space available. There, in the middle of the room, is a simple, curved animal horn. It isn’t the jewel-encrusted version he’s seen in books and paintings, and it honestly looks like something from a history book if not for the thin line of Enochian symbols drawn in a spiral around the thing. Disappointment flares cold and unbidden in Sam’s stomach. Until he sees the play of shadows that can only be fire from under the door frame of what had to have once been an office. He leaves the horn without a second thought and goes for the lock on the door.

The second it’s open, there’s an all too familiar voice hissing “You _moron!_ _It’s a trap!_ ” and an angel blade swooping down toward his head. Only a lifetime of hunting reflexes keeps Sam from a fatal strike. He’s pretty sure his bangs are going to be a little lopsided in the morning, but it’s a more than fair trade. There’s a muttered “ _Ouch! Dammit!_ ” but Sam doesn’t have time to pay much attention as the guard lunges at him again. The burly man’s first crashes into the wall hard enough to go straight through, knocking loose a collection of nearby boards with a loud _pop_ against the ground.

Sam manages to get a clean slice in, but it puts him in a bad position, and he ultimately gets a grip like steel around his neck for the effort. And, naturally, this would be the guy who chooses to stab instead of toss. The hunter kicks out, and it would have thrown the guy off balance if he’d been human.

Since he’s an angel, it’s less than futile, and Sam prepares himself for the familiar hot pain of getting stabbed.

And then there’s the tip of a blade sticking through the center of his attacker’s chest. He barely has time to lift an arm to cover his eyes before the blast of heat and Grace slams against his face and hands. By the time he opens his eyes, he’s got about fifteen seconds to process Gabriel huffing as he kicks the empty vessel aside before he drops his sword and slumps forward with all the grace of a rock. The fingers of Sam’ left hand are immediately warm and sticky with blood as he instinctively reaches forward to catch the archangel and ease his descent.

Gabriel is mess. His neatly styled hair is all over the place, and the dark circles under his eyes make him look exhausted and all too human. It’s his right arm that really startles Sam with the nasty, bloody burn covering the majority of it up to the elbow. When the looks to the side, he sees the ring of holy fire in the center of the room and the single board pulled up to create a passage over the edge through the flames. 

…Which means that the reckless idiot probably reached _through_ the holy fire to grab the edge of the board and pull it over in the first place.

When Sam looks back, eyes wide with disbelief and disapproval, Gabriel is grinning. It’s exhausted and a piss poor imitation of the bright, flashy expressions Sam is used to from the guy, but it feels all the more genuine for it. “Not so good at playing damsel in distress,” he says with the nerve to look smug about it. Granted, he winces not ten seconds later and rolls his right shoulder. “Damn, though. That stings like a _bitch_.”

Probably not the way Sam would describe a burn like that… He has a sneaking suspicion that only the fact that Gabriel is an archangel even allowed him to survive a stunt like that. “If you want to put that quick wit to use, I’m taking suggestions on how to get you out of here,” Sam points out, eyeing the layout of the room, “How did that angel get in here?”

“Flatterer,” Gabriel accuses half-heartedly. He groans as he uses Sam and his good arm to force himself up. “ _I’m_ gonna use the pagan cheat code because I don't have the VIP backstage pass – convert enough of my Grace into pagan magic so the wards actually think I’m just Loki. _You_ are gonna be a good shinning knight and carry my unconscious ass outta this hell hole. Got it?”

In the face of everything he’s just seen, Sam just nods dumbly.

Apparently it’s funny because Gabriel’s smirk is a little more amused this time when he reaches up with his good hand to pat Sam’s cheek. “Good Samoose,” he teases, “And don’t forget my horn. Kind of important.” Before Sam can ask for details, there’s a _snap_ and Gabriel slumps forward against Sam as dead weight.

Knowing that they’ve got even less of a chance of pulling this off if they stay long enough for reinforcements, Sam tucks away his angel blade and the one Gabriel dropped before he gathers the unconscious body in his arms and heads back into the room with the horn. He’s more than careful to keep any part of the angel cradled against his chest from coming anywhere close to the holy fire that burns in a ring around the weapon. He snags the horn and heads back outside to Castiel.

It looks like Adam has managed to get back on his own two feet, which is one less worry off of Sam’s back. There’s also another empty vessel laying nearby, and Castiel has a look of guilt that can only mean that he’s already mourning the death of the fallen here. Some of the guilt is dislodged, however, when he sets his eyes on Gabriel. Granted, concern takes over just seconds later, but it’s something.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait until they get to the car to start with the questions. The walk is tense, but they don’t meet anymore resistance as Sam piles into the backseat with Gabriel. Adam takes shotgun, and Castiel pulls the car out with a little more finesse than Sam actually expects.

With the mission looking like a success, Sam carefully turns his attention to Gabriel. Now that he isn’t grinning and tossing around instructions, he about as worn down as the rest of them. The burn on his arm isn’t healing nearly as fast as it should be, but the bleeding at least has stopped. “How is he, Cas?” Sam asks, because the vessel isn’t the best indicator of the angel inside.

“He’ll be fine thanks to you, Sam,” Castiel replies. There’s pride in his tone, and it’s been a long time since Sam heard anything like it. “Michael will be able to do more for him than I.”

“Adam, are you okay?” Sam continues, eyeing the back of the blonde’s head.

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” Adam replies bluntly, “And I’m pretty sure I’m repressing a minor panic attack because I _think_ I just fried somebody with my mind. How about you?”

Sam wisely chooses not to comment. “I believe Michael’s Grace formed a strong impression from his attempts to protect you in the Cage,” Castiel interjects, “The pieces he left behind likely sensed the danger you were in and lashed out at the source.”

Adam blanches. “I thought that’s the duct tape holding my soul together.”

Castiel’s expression goes drawn and grim, “It was.”

_Shit_. And there’s the other shoe apparently. Sam’s grip tightens on Gabriel’s good shoulder and desperately hopes that it isn’t as bad as it sound.

Knowing their luck, it’s probably worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! Hope you all enjoyed! 
> 
> Just as a heads up, the next chapter is a little slower paced than this one and focuses more on the relationships between the characters from what I have so far. I’m not sure if that’ll change since I occasionally deviate from the original plan upon re-reading. 
> 
> Anyway, I should be able to keep up with this weekly posting schedule if all goes according to plan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that you guys are fantastic? Because you guys are fantastic. In light of all your awesomeness, I've decided to post this week's chapter a couple days early because all of the amazing feedback has sort of pumped me up and gotten me way ahead of schedule on the writing. Also, I've replied to all of the wonderful people who left encouraging comments, but I wanted to give a shout out of gratitude to everyone who bookmarked this and left kudos because those also make me a very happy camper. 
> 
> No real new warnings here either. If you're cool with the minor language in previous chapters, this shouldn't really be anything different. Once again, though, I'm new to this tagging thing, so please tell me if you spot something that you think merits a warning. Though, as I still have no beta, that also means there are probably more typos in this chapter that I haven't managed to catch. And since I was a little tired after the plane ride when I edited this... I'm a bit more paranoid about that. 
> 
> And, finally, I haven't acquired any degree of rights to Supernatural or its characters in the past couple of days, much to my continued disappointment.

“They’re near,” Michael announces as soon as Adam concludes his latest prayer. His Grace hums with the resonance of Adam’s emotions and the discomfort paramount among them. It’s an unusually powerful connection between former vessel and angel. It results in a prayer like the crack of thunder among a room of whispers. Michael isn’t sure whether to attribute it to the fact that Adam served so long as his vessel in the Cage or that he still holds a fraction of Michael’s Grace. For the half a minute it takes, the frantic whispers of prayers he cannot possibly aid in answering now are hushed.

It’s an intense relief of a heavy burden that he would not allow himself if he had a choice in the matter. Forgetting the needs of humanity – of his brothers and sisters – in lieu of the mission is why they’re all in this position to begin with.

“Everybody good?” Dean’s gruff voice asks. The tone is careless, but he bleeds concern without knowing it. Michael’s connection to Adam is comfortable in the way only companionship forged through tribulation could be; his connection to Dean Winchester, however, is a point of constant discomfort. Neither of them are particularly pleased with it. He recognizes the similarity in the strengths of their convictions, but their very different list of priorities puts them inevitably at odds.

The fact that he can sense a strange strike of innate discord between himself and the hunter, however, makes him immensely grateful that he never consented to vesselhood.

“They were successful and are alive,” he replies because there’s a sense in Adam’s tone that says that something has gone wrong, despite his assurance that they’re all fine. Dean seems to understand the implications and quiets as he prepares to run damage control.

Michael senses Gabriel’s approach long before Castiel pulls the car into the lot. That, in and of itself, is disconcerting since he hasn’t sensed Gabriel’s unguarded Grace for several ages. What elevates the disconcertion into full concern is the fragility of the Grace. The light that should be able to overpower even Castiel’s glow is barely flickering as distinctive next to the seraph, which makes it all the more difficult to discern the nature of the situation.

He’s left in the proverbial dark until he sees Sam Winchester carefully cradling the unconscious vessel as he hurries to the room before one of the humans nearby thinks to question what’s happening.

Something like a vice grip eases in the pit of his vessel’s stomach. Gabriel is alive. Wounded, but not fatally. The last words he will speak to his brother are not the ‘Be gone’ that has haunted him for centuries.

He turns his gaze to Adam and feels his new vessel’s lips turn down in an automatic frown. He sees the treads of demonic taint swirling like hunting snakes among the natural light of Adam’s soul and Michael’s Grace… the latter of which is now in chaos trying to seek out the taint.

It isn’t a problem that will require immediate attention – nothing like the marks of holy fire burned into Gabriel’s vessel and true being under it – but it is something he will need to begin to address relatively soon.

Apparently the concept of “triage” is something Adam, the physician-in-training, and Michael, the soldier, have in common.

He also thinks that perhaps he is stalling himself as he stares unblinking at his younger and youngest brothers, as the latter helps Sam ease the former onto one of the beds. Long, thin fingers descend on his vessel’s – _his_ – shoulder. Physical touch is… strange and new but hardly unpleasant. He looks to his side to see Adam watching him. “You okay?” he asks quietly.

Michael takes a moment to appreciate the irony of the situation that he is the one who hasn’t just walked into obvious danger. Apparently, even now, Adam has the natural instinct of a healer, even if his bedside manner is somewhat… short. “I’m fine,” he replies, “You and I need to speak later.”

Adam frowns deeply and nods. It looks as though he has some idea of what this is about, which means that Castiel has probably at least hinted that his soul is currently in turmoil. He pats Michael’s shoulder blade to urge him forward, and his vessel lets out an automatic hiss at even that pressure on the shredded joints of his wings. It draws a tight look of guilt and confusion from the human, but Michael shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he repeats, though he realizes that Adam evidentially has an idea of what’s wrong.

The human nods and tilts his head toward Gabriel. “Cas said you could help him,” he points out, “So go help him.”

Michael lifts a brow testily and hopes that the mostly snuffed out smile he conjures is enough to relate that he’s attempting the exchange of banter he’s seen among Castiel and the humans. “As I recall, you stopped me first,” he counters.

Adam is silent for several long seconds. Eventually, he makes a soft huff that Michael has learned to associate with his amusement. “Great. _Now_ you decide to grow a sense of humor,” he mutters half-heartedly with a shake of his head, “Come find me after you’re done with Gabriel.”

Adam approaches Sam, who is carefully trying to gently ease the cloth of Gabriel’s sleeve back away from the injury. He grabs Sam’s free arm and tugs him aside. Apparently Sam allows it, given their sheer difference in muscle mass and height. There’s a pronouncement of “ _You_ need stitches or Cas before you bleed all over the floor, and I’m guessing you two bozos don’t go to the hospital like normal people” before they head off to the bathroom.

With Dean and Castiel heading to look over Sam as well, Michael approaches Gabriel. He sits awkwardly on the side of the mattress and hovers a hand above the injured arm. He’s clinical at first because it’s simpler and far more efficient. When Gabriel’s Grace subconsciously recoils from his like an old instinct, that mirage hits the ground hard. He slows down and works on coaxing his brother’s body to heal itself. Surprisingly, it works, and he isn’t sure whether to be relieved or broken by the subtle, hesitant embrace of Grace and pagan magic.

Somehow he thinks that it won’t be so easy when Gabriel wakens.

Michael nearly exhausts himself by the time the damage is healed, which is a problem he thinks he can solve with relative ease. He simply isn’t used to having such a small pool of power to pull from, and he supposes now he’ll need to ask Castiel about economy.

On a whim, he reaches out to put some order to the sandy hair of Gabriel’s vessel. It’s a distinctly human gesture, but he likes it for all the more personal it feels. By the time he’s finished, some of the magic has given way to shining Grace. It puts Michael’s mind at ease, and he trades places with a freshly healed Sam Winchester and walks outside to find Adam sitting on the hotel lot with a bottle of soda.

Adam refuses to look at him, even as Michael takes a seat on the concrete curb next to him. He takes a drink and wraps an arm around his knees. “So I fried one of your sisters with my brain today,” he announces, “Sorry.”

It takes roughly a minute and a half to figure out what that actually means. Unfortunately, he hasn’t had much time to adjust to modern speech patterns, much less the more colorful expressions John Winchester’s sons tend to craft at a moment’s notice. “Technically that was my Grace’s doing,” he points out.

Adam snorts, but it doesn’t sound that amused, “I should probably be mad you didn’t warn me about the whole Vulcan mind meld thing, but I get the feeling this is all pretty new.”

Michael has no idea what the pagan god Vulcan has to do with telepathy and simply writes it off as another cultural reference he doesn’t understand. “Something similar can be attempted temporarily among our own kind for the purposes of healing. Our species are very different and very rarely compatible for such a thing,” he explains automatically. He considers it a moment before he adds on by way of justification, “My brother would have killed you in the Cage had you turned.”

For one shameful moment, he feels so tired of being compelled to justify every action he’s taken.

Adam doesn’t look that surprised, nor does he actually seen angry, which is something of a minor victory. Finally, he turns his slightly to meet Michael’s gaze. “What happens now?” he asks. He’s surprisingly calm, but signs of his distress and anxiety are bleeding through in the way his shoulders tense and his fingers tap out a nonsensical pattern on his knee.

“There are options,” Michael tells him initially in hopes of alleviating the anxiety. It works to some degree. The finger tapping stills at least. “Now that my brother is no longer an immediate threat, the Grace can be retracted to allow the change to occur, but you would not be you anymore,” he says as objectively as possible. Personally, he despises the idea – hates to think that the brightness and strength that makes Adam unique could twist into something wrong and dark. He’s taken enough from this human to not offer every option though.

“I think I’m good without growing a pair of horns, thanks,” Adam replies with a scowl.

Michael is so relieved he doesn’t touch everything wrong with that statement. “Good,” he says with an approving nod, “There is a cleansing ritual, but I don’t believe it would work since you _are_ still technically human. There is, however, a ritual intended for prophets. I believe I could alter it for our purposes if Gabriel has no other ideas. It would require that we cleanse sources of violent emotion from your past experiences, which would theoretically leave the demonic influence little place to cling. We’d need to begin in a few days – preferably as soon as my Grace recovers fully.”

Adam sighs and shrugs, “Why not? You’ve been in my head before.” The tone is apathetic at the surface, but he obviously isn’t as comfortable with the idea as he wants to appear.

He mimics Adam’s actions from earlier and sets a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “I refuse to dishonor you with a lie. It will be difficult. The memories are likely the darkest points in your existence,” he warns sincerely, “But I will be by your side the entire time if you chose to do this.”

Adam turns his gaze back to the parking lot and exhales some of the tension from his shoulders. A muted, amused smirk pulls the corner of his lips upward. “Y’know… When you’re not busy dragging me through Hell, you’re not a bad friend to have around.”

Michael lifts his brows, enjoying the increased dexterity with this new physical form as much as the declaration from Adam, “Was that intended to be a compliment?”

The comment surprises and short laugh out of Adam, who nudges Michael’s shoulder with his own and apparently forgets to lean back away. “So you’re actually a smart ass under all the decorum,” he declares not without humor, “Good to know.”

They fall into a silence that’s somewhere between comfortable and tense with anticipation. Given the drop in temperature, Michael supposes the warmth of Adam’s side pressed against his would be comforting if he were human. He’s somewhat puzzled as to why that’s the case even though he’s equipped to keep his vessel in perfect homeostasis in any climate in Creation. 

He doesn’t ask Adam in fear of ruining the moment.

 

* * *

 

On a scale of one to ten, Gabriel would rate the past couple of weeks as a scale-breaking, full on shit-storm. Between the Fall, a front row seat to hearing his brothers and sisters slaughtering each other ( _again_ ), and freaking Meta-megalomania making him wish Kali had screwed up his hearing when she hit the Loki reset button, he’s seriously wondering why he bothered to think he’d get away with early retirement via heroic sacrifice.

Frankly, the whole mess has _Winchesters and Castiel were here_ written all over it.

Though, admittedly, one Sam Winchester was something of a sight to behold through the stupid holy flames of his even stupider jail cell… If the hunter hadn’t tried to take on an opponent way over his head in the process.

And then, of course, there’s the fact that one of his littler brother’s blood is now on his hands; the memory of dying Grace blazing past him makes him almost physically sick. But that might also have to do with the fact that he’s running mostly on Trickster magic, just burned tons of calories between the fighting and healing, and is in serious need of something processed and full of early onset tooth decay.

He’s pretty sure that’s the need that eventually drives him to open his eyes.

It takes him roughly five seconds to process that the broad-shouldered figure sitting in a rickety chair next to the bed with a book in his lap is actually Sam. It’s about four seconds more than it should have taken. "Damn, Sam-I-am, I don’t remember telling you I needed a bedside vigil, too,” he points out. Seriously. He can’t even _remember_ the last time somebody sat at his bedside while he was injured, which is saying something because angels tend to have perfect recall. He’s pretty sure it was Raphael after getting a chunk taken out of his wing by Leviathan, and it was _way_ before humans were a thing, much less the guy who invented beds in the first place.

Sam doesn’t jump because he’s too well conditioned for random jump scares, but he does dawn the puppy-eyed look of repressed, Winchester-y concern as Gabriel sits up and slides his feet over the side of the bed. His expressive eyebrows do this weirdly adorable twitch like they can’t decide between sympathy and frustration. “How’s the arm?” he finally asks as his expression settles.

Gabriel blinks because, for all the perfect recall, he sometimes gets distracted and forgets to think about some of those memories (and sometimes he does it on purpose). He looks down at the arm he shoved through holy fire. The flesh of his vessel is fine, which isn’t saying much. Damage to a human body is almost stupidly easy to fix with a little Grace or magic.

Angels – _especially_ highly ranked ones – are infinitely more difficult to heal, and the damage to the angel underneath the human skin is healed and unscarred. This isn’t the clumsy patch-job of a smart, crafty seraph like Castiel with no other options. For the first time since he faced down his once beloved brother, he feels a trill of dread, but not entirely for himself.

“Sam, who did this?” he asks, one-hundred percent archangel despite the chaotic swirl of pagan magic still overwhelming his system. He hates that this is the mode he reverts to when he thinks his brothers are near.

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t back down from his stare. In fact, he’s opening his mouth, presumably to answer, when the door opens, and Gabriel wonders just how the circles of Hell he managed to miss _that_ particular land mine.

“ _Michael_?” slips out dumbly before he can process anything witty to say.

Upon closer inspection – meaning several seconds of gaping – he realizes it’s because Michael is exhausted. Gabriel winces at the familiar marks of Hell now scorching both of his elder brothers’ wings, adding to the damage innate from the Fall. And then there’s the littlest of John Winchester’s brood at his side, a whole different mess of Grace, demon, and human.

Which is _freaking weird_ since he was pretty sure that poor kid got eaten by ghouls.

Actually... He probably did, but apparently the whole death thing just doesn’t take with Winchester genes. Honestly, Gabriel thinks the old man is just screwing around with them now. Because Death did always have a wicked sense of humor and better taste in junk food, but…

That’s not really important at the moment.

Michael looks awkward. That’s distractingly weird because the Michael he last knew wouldn’t just be standing there, hesitant and staring, like he’s been struck dumb in the past few seconds. He’d sweep in and take charge – start tossing around orders and possibly the angel equivalent of a demerit for Gabriel’s desertion. There should be lectures about responsibility and loyalty and how the Apocalypse is back on track: not awkward staring worthy of a shitty TV soap.

“ _Please_ tell me I didn’t get stabbed for nothing,” Gabriel sighs. And yeah, there’s more drama to it than there should be, but seriously. He sort of deserves it because he actually _did_ die. And, as he would like to put on record, it sucked.

No one answers, presumably for fear of shifting a hella lot of awkwardness onto themselves in the process. So Gabriel, self-proclaimed actor and proprietor or brashness that he is, decides to stare at Michael until _somebody_ bites the freaking bullet and starts talking. Michael eventually clears his throat – a completely useless gesture for him – and, honest to everything delicious and sugary, _shuffles_ forward.

“May we have a moment?” he asks Castiel and the Winchesters.

Dean is the first to move, quickly followed by Junior Winchester and Castiel. It’s actually Sam that waits for Gabriel to nod his consent before he, too, heads out of the door. It takes a few seconds for Michael’s gaze to return to Gabriel’s, but when it does, the solid disciplined determination is back. “Are you well?” he asks.

Gabriel eyes him suspiciously but decides to go for it. “Alright. I’ll bite,” he announces. He stands up it’s a lot more formal. He just wishes the rooms the Winchesters rented could afford at least a few boozes. Instead he decides to busy himself with rifling through the mini fridge. Michael, he figures, is too noble to stab him in the back. “Let me guess: Metatron screwed up the tree house in the sky, accidentally let you two plus the littlest Winchester out of the Time Out Corner, and now you figure I’m probably _way_ more likely to help you get the flood gates open than Luci ever would be.”

Michael doesn’t say anything, which pretty much confirms it. He’s the natural-born leader and strategist, but Gabriel is the one that excels at improvisation. This is his home tuff, and he’s not about to give up footing until he’s got a damn good reason for it. So he turns back around with a stolen bottle of beer, pops the top off with a flick of his index finger, and takes a drink just to draw out the silence before he meets Michael’s waiting look.

“What I don’t really get is this,” he finishes up, pointing absently with the index finger of the hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, “How’d you get the Wonder Twins to play along. Last time I checked, you were batting two-for-two on the Winchester-angst scale. Bargaining Winchester Junior?  ‘Cause I’ve gotta tell ya, bro, they get _real_ touchy about family.”

Gabriel really isn’t sure what to expect. The frown and pronouncement of “Milligan” really isn’t it though. It’s enough to throw him off completely for all of ten to fifteen seconds. For Michael, it’s probably a record outside of jumping into a literal warzone with some seemingly insane, ingenious plan. His confusion registers because Michael’s frown relaxes by a fraction as he elaborates, “John Winchester’s youngest son. Adam. He prefers his mother’s surname.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Holy _shit…_

Judging by the scandalized look, Gabriel actually ended up saying that aloud. 

Oops.

He leans his freshly healed arm against the counter with the mini fridge. “What the hell happened to you?” he asks. Because this guy? He’s more like the brother Gabriel remembers before the betrayal and the fighting and the bitter words traded like physical attacks – the one he tries to forget because life is just less pesky that way.

“Hell happened,” is the terse, grim reply. He takes a step closer, testing the waters, and when Gabriel lets him, he takes another. Within two feet of each other, it’s obvious that, once again, Gabriel’s vessel is the shorter of the bunch. Sadly, this time he can’t consul himself with the fact that his true self dwarfs even little Castiel because Michael has him trumped there, too.

He tries to crush the little piece of him that revels in his brother’s presence again. The scar left behind from Lucifer wielding his own freaking sword aches like a warning. “And after everybody floats on back to the big, fluffy clouds in the sky?” he asks, letting the sharp humor leech out of his whole being for just a moment, “You expect me to buy that you’re just gonna let Lucifer walk the earth, no biggie? No grand, final boss battle with humanity in the cross hairs?” 

It’s obvious that Michael has thought about it. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No,” he admits even though it’s obvious that he’s trying to ignore his own discomfort with the idea, “And I would welcome ideas as to how to best deal with that situation as it becomes more pressing.”

Alright. Gabriel refuses to admit it out loud, but he’s more than aware enough of his body to know that his brows shoot up toward his hairline. He’s legitimately shocked for the first time since he caved and gave Sam a get-out-of-jail-lesson-free card back in the endless groundhog Tuesday bit. He just plays it off a lot better than most beings in Creation. “Just like that?” he demands with a skeptical look, “Seriously?”

He’s not unaware of the hand approaching his shoulder, but it still sort of surprises him even further to see Michael so seemingly comfortable with physical gestures of comfort. The grip is firm and urgent but not built to trap. “Just like that,” he assures, his tone soft but weighted with Michael’s own strange brand of blunt sincerity. He’s seen a seed of a different variety of that in Dean; like it’s cool to make world-ending problems seem like a no brainer via force of will. His dark brows furrow as he continues on. “We have lost enough. I thought you were dead. Raphael is—“

“Don’t go there,” Gabriel warns darkly.

To Michael’s credit, he just nods. The sympathy in his gaze does wonders for chipping away at the defenses Gabriel has had centuries to build: it means that Michael at least _gets_ what it’s like to not want to talk about spectacular failures as a big brother. That, in turn, means he realizes that he, himself, has screwed up somewhere. The grip on the slighter archangel's shoulder tightens just a fraction. “I intend to make this right, Gabriel,” Michael says, “For us and them. Whatever it takes.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenches down hard without his permission. He forces himself to go loose-limbed and relaxed like this doesn’t bother him at all. He shrugs, seemingly care-free and reckless. “Pretty sure ‘whatever it takes’ is what got us all in trouble in the first place,” he points out blandly. And, yeah, he intends for the words to cut, and it looks like they hit the mark.

The knot of tension in Michael’s brow eases into the stubborn determination that often made Gabriel want to try and beat his head against a wall for all the good it’d do them. “I have made mistakes,” he admits, “And I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I don’t think—“ Gabriel pauses mid-rant because he’d been anticipating a whole ‘ends justify the means’ speech. He’s left shamefully gaping. He covers it up and uses a pinky to mimic cleaning out his ear. “Sorry about that. I thought Kali got the ears right in the whole resurrection bit, but I could’ve sworn _you_ just apologized.”

Michael, the smug bastard, has the nerve to look amused. And _that’s_ freaking weird, too, because the last time he saw that… Well, there’s been a lot of time and bloodshed since then. “Your humor has become more childish, I think,” he replies.

Gabriel mocks offense because this is familiar at least. “Hello? Trickster,” he announces, jabbing a thumb at his chest, “My humor is _classic_.” Michael’s brows shoot upward, but he doesn’t actually look all that surprised. It only dawns on Gabriel that he’s let slip his incognito identity… that he’d mistakenly assumed the Winchesters had already given away to their latest alley.

Michael takes a step backward and drops his hand to his side, but he doesn’t stop watching Gabriel, even as the seriousness leeches back into his face. “Metatron is right about one thing: we won’t last much longer if we continue to go on like this,” he admits quietly with a shake of his head, “Petty grabs for power, the peaceful among our siblings punished for wanting to lay down arms, and questions perceived as decent when Father gifted his Creations free will for a reason. It has to stop.”

 _Holy shit_. That's... probably considered a major miracle right there on its own.

This is probably the time that Gabriel is supposed to say something profound – support the resurgence of his brother from the shell war had made of him. But… that’s not really his style. “You _know_ I’m not gonna let you pull a Winchester and fall your own sword,” he points out bluntly because it’s the closest he’s come to commitment since he had Sam and Dean take Kali and run, “Because you chuckleheads _really_ have to quit doing that.”

There’s an ironic twitch of a smirk at the edge of Michael’s mouth. “So I’ve been informed.”

Gabriel lifts a brow at his older brother. “Wow, bro. You’ve got it as bad as little Cassie, don’t you?” he announces. Michael, naturally, is completely lost at the turn of conversation. Gabriel shakes his head dismissively and claps Michael’s arm. With a snap and flash of magic, he conjures up a new, notably unsinged outfit. “C’mon. Let’s grab Scooby and the gang, hop in the Mystery Mobile, and go celebrate until we’re all too drunk to see straight.”

 

* * *

 

Dean is pretty much five minutes short of shoving his little brothers and Castiel into the Impala and taking cover at the nearest providers of fast, greasy food when Michael and Gabriel anticlimactically walk out of the hotel room without blood in sight. His argument is brought to a halt somewhere around, ‘ _Yes_ , Milligan, the T-1000 could _totally_ kick the Predator’s ass‘ and ‘No, Sam, the friggin’ Borg Collective doesn’t count because they’re more than one person. Machine. Thing. _Whatever_. Seriously. _Milligan_ is one-upping you at this point.’

Castiel leaves their impromptu group, marches right up to Gabriel, and drags the archangel into a back-clapping hug. There’s a pang of pride because Dean recognizes that Castiel has apparently picked it up from himself and Sam over the years. Sure, he’s good at not talking about his feelings, but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of them: as much as he hates the idea of dragging a friggin’ _angel_ to earth, he’s paradoxically pleased that at least some part of their time as friends will stick around in Castiel long after the Winchester line is gone.

Gabriel rolls his eyes but returns the gesture. He dawns a wicked grin and mutters something in Castiel’s ear that causes the dark-haired angel to let go and back up, slightly pink at the neck. Michael lifts an incredulous brow at Gabriel but doesn’t comment. That trio of brothers ends up approaching Dean’s own little group, probably making one of the weirdest mishmashes of hunters and supernatural he’s ever seen in the parking lot of one unsuspecting hotel.

Sam fishes a bag of M&Ms out of his pocket and tosses them at Gabriel, who catches them with a grin. “I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite,” the archangel announces with a wink. Sam frowns his disapproval while Gabriel tears into the candy like a hungry velociraptor. After the first handful, he announces his plans to hit a bar.

“Oh, no, skippy. You’re not getting near Baby,” Dean tells him before he jabs a thumb at Adam, “The twerp here doesn’t exactly have ID, and you _know_ he won’t make it past the front door without getting carded.”

Adam dispassionately flips him off. Gabriel huffs indignantly. “Fine. Get your grubby ass back in your shitty hotel room, but I’m making changes.”

‘Changes’ turns out to be the altering of space to make the room comfortably accommodate six grown men, a huge plush couch, new wallpaper, a full-sized fridge packed with snacks and alcohol, and a massive flat screen complete with ‘Trickster streaming services.’

Dean refuses to admit that it’s sort of awesome on principle.

Within an half an hour, it’s silently agreed upon that they have enough bullshit to deal with to earn a short break. Gabriel even manages to get Castiel and Michael to stay. During that whole argument, Dean, professional older brother that he is, notices it: the way Gabriel doesn’t seem to get that he’s got Michael wrapped around his little finger.

He lets it go and settles down on the couch with a slice of pie and a beer next to Castiel, who has already taken a seat since he doesn’t want anything to eat. Castiel radiates warmth that’s just slightly warmer than normal but still well below feverish. Adam settles down on Dean’s other side with a plate piled full of nachos and a frankly obscene amount of cheese. Soon enough, Sam sits on the edge of the couch that’s free beside Castiel while Michael takes the other side near Adam.

Gabriel walks over and hands his brothers a legit, old-school flagon with something that smells sweet like friggin’ honey. Castiel refuses, but Michael eyes it curiously like he’s trying to read its molecular structure with his eyes. Hell. Maybe he is. “Authentic Asgardian ale,” Gabriel announces as he throws back his own drink.

Soon enough, they’re watching _A New Hope_. Between the lack of anything with teeth coming after them, the fact that he and his brothers are sandwiched between a seraph and two archangels, and the alcohol, some of the tension and pressure of the past couple of months slowly eases out of Dean.

Somehow between Han Solo chasing a gang of stormtroopers down a hallway and Gabriel pretty much nonchalantly confirming the existence of alien life, Castiel starts shifting with a look of mild discomfort on his face. It’s enough to draw Dean’s attention, especially when his gaze clearly isn’t focused on the here and now. By the time the movie gets close to the climax, Castiel is occasionally rubbing just below his collarbone.

Dean’s eyes narrow because he knows what Castiel looks like when he’s hiding something. He’s ignored, and Gabriel is probably more than a little drunk by the way he staggers up to get more candy before they start _Empire Strikes Back_.

That’s roughly when Castiel quietly excuses himself.

The lazy look of contentment that Michael has had since he finished off whatever Gabriel gave him shifts into a frown as he watches the younger angel leave. He leans forward just enough to meet Dean’s gaze around Adam. “I’m not technically telling you to follow him,” he says.

Dean just stares for a second because he has no idea what the hell that’s supposed to mean. Then he gets an urging look as the archangel tilts his head toward the hotel door. Somehow the pieces fit together: Michael knows what Castiel is hiding, and whatever it is, it’s important.

Dean is on his feet and out of the door before he can think of an excuse to cover his fast exit. He doesn’t have to look far because he spots Castiel’s familiar form leaning against the Impala in the yellow light of the streetlamps. He has a hand pressed over the spot he’s been rubbing. What says more is that he doesn’t even notice Dean approaching and almost tenses for a fight when the hunter grabs his wrist and pulls it away from his chest.

“What’s going on, Cas?” he asks. Yeah, he knows he’s getting defensive and pushy, but he can’t help it when he thinks that somebody he cares about is in danger.

Castiel frowns. Dean watches the debate in blue eyes; it doesn’t last long before the angel sighs, shoulders slumped. “Stealing another angel’s Grace is… a travesty,” he says softly, now refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Look, if this is some kind of self-imposed guilt trip, you _told_ me you did what you had to do,” Dean argues, “I know you, Cas. You don’t do crap like that unless you’ve got no other choice.”

The edge of Castiel’s lips curve upward, but there’s no real humor in his eyes as he looks at Dean again. “You misunderstand, Dean,” he explains as he reaches to unbutton the first button on his shirt, then the second. Dean’s about to ask what all of this has to do with going all Magic Mike in a dark parking lot when the uncovered sight of a web of black and purple flesh shuts him up. It’s too familiar. Even though he knows this has nothing to do with Leviathan, the memories make him sick to his stomach. “It has nothing to do with my feelings on the matter. The Grace is rejecting me.”

Before he can think about how friggin’ weird it is, he’s tracing his fingers over the infected skin. He’s ready to draw his hand back, but some of the tension eases out of Castiel with a sigh at the touch, like whatever has been making him twitchy all night is at bay for the moment. He swallows down his stupid, macho pride, but he turns the searching touch into a safer grip on the shoulder instead. “What? Like an organ transplant?” he tries. Castiel simply nods like he isn’t confirming the worst case scenario. “So you’re telling me you’re dying?” When Castiel says nothing, it stokes the fury built off of the fear clenched around Dean’s rib cage. “And you were just gonna hide this and sit around like everything’s cool? Until, what? You just didn’t pick up your damn phone one day?!”

Castiel’s expression falls. “I would have warned you when it became more serious,” he replies sternly with an answering spark of frustration, “The Fall is _my_ burden. I allowed this to happen. If this is the penance I pay to fix it, so be it.”

Now Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest like the drums of a war beat. Heat raises to his cheeks because anger has always been easier than fear and hurt. “What happened to all that ‘you’re the best ally I've got’ bullshit, huh?” he demands, “’Cause you’ve gotta admit, it sure as hell seems like you don’t think too much of me right now.”

“Do _not_ twist my words,” Castiel warns him, eyes narrowing as he regroups, “I trust you with my life. You are one of my few friends, Dean Winchester, which is why I would not burden you with this unless I no other choice.”

“Oh, no! You just wanna show up half dead on my doorstep after it’s too late to do anything, because watching somebody else I love die isn’t a ‘burden’ at all,” Dean snaps. Castiel’s eyebrows shoot straight up, which isn’t exactly his usual expression for things that surprise him. It makes Dean backtrack through what he’d said, and _shit_. “Look, you’re my best friend, and now we’ve got Gabriel and Mike. You can’t tell me—“

“You love me,” Castiel repeats with that curious, analyzing look. It’s not a question, and it sounds like Castiel is trying the words out to get a feel for the idea behind them.

“You’re my best friend,” Dean repeats as he pulls his hand back because dammit. He’s pretty sure this is the sort of crap he’s avoided since he found a ragged Castiel wandering the side of the road, miraculously free of Purgatory. It's easier for them both in the long run to pretend like nothing's changed. “That’s how you’re supposed to feel about your friends.”

The blue-eyed bastard has the nerve to lift a brow and hint at a smile. “Is it?” Castiel challenges with frustrating ease. He says it like it’s that easy. His eyes fall to the place on Dean’s shoulder where there’d been a handprint made from the touch of pure Grace. “I chose to fall once because you asked it of me,” he says suddenly as his gaze lifts purposefully to meet Dean’s again, “And perhaps I would do it again, but you know I can't be useless in this battle. Don’t ask that of me now, Dean.”

It’s too damn much because Dean isn’t stupid. His entire life has been built on being able to read people. The new knowledge that whatever torch he’s been trying to snuff out for Castiel is returned blazes through him with a numb, overwhelming shock. And now Castiel has given him a conversational out if he wants it.

 _Screw it all_ , he decides. 

He reaches forward unthinking, and slips his fingers around the back of Castiel’s neck. He presses their foreheads together, and Castiel lets him.

“Dammit, Cas,” he sighs.

They’ve got the worst timing on the planet.

Castiel hums his agreement like he hears the thought and relaxes against him, warm and comfortable.

For the first time in a long time, Dean wishes that he had Sam’s faith because he _really_  wants to think someone out there will have mercy on them this time.

 

* * *

 

Sam peels himself off of the couch at one in the morning at the end of _Empire Strikes Back_. Dean and Castiel are still missing, but Sam isn’t about to go after them in fear of interrupting whatever heart-to-heart they may or may not be having. Hell. For all he knows, they could be at a dinner somewhere with their weird, mutual affection for greasy, cholesterol-magnet burgers and soul-searching stares.

Adam, who fell asleep before the Luke versus Vader duel, is leaned back with his head cushioned against Michael’s shoulder. What’s marginally more surprising is that Michael’s eyes are closed, and he seems to be breathing the soft, deep breaths of someone who’s asleep. “It’s the ale and the Grace exhaustion,” Gabriel announces from his perch on Sam’s right.

When Sam turns to look at him, he looks suspiciously sober compared to twenty minutes ago. “You meant for that to happen,” he speculates aloud.

Gabriel smirks proudly and leans back, one hand folded behind his head while the other is occupied with a half-finished bowl of pretzels. “Sleep’s good for just about everything,” he points out, “It’s just a pain in the ass for us to actually get to sleep without a little help.”

Sam classifies that information away in case it could come in handy later. “So you are actually sticking around this time?” he asks. Honestly, he’s not sure what to believe, no matter how Gabriel answers. On one hand, this is the guy who’s ditched Heaven for centuries; on the other hand, he’s the guy who took on Lucifer for them.

Gabriel huffs an amused sound. “Can it, chucklehead. I can _see_ the gears in that impressive noggin of yours grinding,” he replies flippantly, “Pretty sure I threw my lot in with you losers when Luci stabbed me.”

Sam turns to better face Gabriel now that he doesn’t have to worry about seeing the TV. “What happened, Gabriel?” he asks, “We thought you were dead. I _saw_ your Grace.”

Gabriel frowns, obviously not liking the turn in conversation. “I _was_ dead,” he replies like Sam doesn’t know how much that’s bound to disturb him, “I guess Kali wanted to pay off a favor to me instead of owing you two by extension – weird pagan life-debts and crap.” He shrugs carelessly as he vanishes the now empty bowl. “And I’ve gotta say, she probably picked the smarter end of the deal considering what sort of favors you and ol’ Dean-o like calling in.”

Sam swallows the lump in his throat. He knows what dying is like. Dying at the hand of the brother you once loved – probably _still_ love… He clears his throat, “How long have you been back?”

Gabriel hums thoughtfully and taps his fingers against the couch arm. “Had to be a couple months before the Fall, or I’m pretty sure Kali would have just ended up with charred vessel for all her hard work,” he announces, “Took me a while to put my Grace back together though, so maybe longer.”

In a weird way, it sort of makes sense that even Kali couldn’t do much to help with the angelic besides providing a spark of some sort. From what Sam understands, there are staunch lines between the two mythos and the creatures from them, which makes Gabriel’s duality more than a little puzzling.

“And, yeah, before you ask, Metatron nabbed me while I was getting back on my feet,” Gabriel continues, “I guess he figured I’d make a good lackey. Long story short: I don’t really do lackey so well in case you hadn't noticed, but he figured since we ‘have so much in common,’ I’d see his way eventually.”

Sam gives Gabriel a blank look as he tries to process that. “Look, no offense, but why didn’t he kill you?” he asks, “You and Michael are dangerous for his plans, and it's not like he's left us a lead before.”

Gabriel frowns and reaches out to flick Sam lightly on the shoulder. Sam’s so unused to casual contact like that aside from his brothers and Castiel that he allows it. “Rude, much,” he chides teasingly before he sobers up again, “I was _the_ Messenger, Sam; I know shit even Metatron doesn’t. That’s useful. Besides, you _do_ realize he thinks he’s a hero, right? Unless I outright provoked him, killing old friends for spite isn’t really a thing a good, heroic protagonist does.”

Somehow… Sam really isn’t all that surprised that Gabriel and Metatron got along at one point. They both share a love of stories and have narcissistic, theatrical tendencies. Granted, Sam is still pretty well convinced that, while Gabriel is undoubtedly confident and self-assured, he isn’t nearly as self-absorbed as he plays himself off as. “And you’re okay?” Sam finally asks.

Gabriel wiggles his brows and grins, “Aw, Sammich, I didn’t know you cared.” Before Sam can point out that, yeah, Gabriel is an ass, but Sam does actually give a damn about somebody who _died_ for them, the angel continues. “I’m fine. Seriously. Mikey over there took care of it.”

Sam shakes his head. “Not what I meant,” he points out as he tilts his head meaningfully toward where Michael and Adam are still slumped.

Gabriel actually laughs. Granted, it’s a quiet chuckle, and there’s something a little manic and skeptical in his honey-colored eyes, but it’s genuine. “I got my brother back, and I’m not dead,” he points out, “Hell, kiddo, I’m better than I have been in centuries.”

Sam… can relate. More than maybe he wants to between Adam, Dean, and everything they’ve been through. He also thinks that Gabriel is possibly a little more buzzed than he lets on. Then again, maybe it’s just that easy for him to say things like that. “For the record, I’m glad you’re not dead,” Sam admits.

Gabriel lifts his brows. “Be still my beating heart,” he retorts dryly in a somehow dramatic monotone. His features takes on a mischievous air as he gestures toward the door, “You know you just missed Cassie and Dean-o _finally_ confessing, right?”

“ _What?!_ ” Sam demands before he can even think to stop himself.

Adam wakes at the noise in an automatic flail of limbs. He ends up thumping Michael in the chest, and bleary green eyes open to glare at them all. Evidentially the former Viceroy of Heaven is decidedly _not_ a morning person. 

Gabriel, the ass, cackles like a madman.

If ever Karma was a thing, Sam sees it in action in the way Gabriel ends up overbalancing and falling into the floor, even if it just makes the archangel laugh even harder.

And, yeah, Sam ends up grinning, but he justifies it by calling the moment of complete insanity a celebration for the hopeful end of the all the damn pinning and frankly obscene eye contact between his friend and older brother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are at the end of chapter three! I promise the actual plot will get rolling pretty quickly again in the next chapter, but it seemed to me that, with Gabriel back, the boys could use a little bit of a breather and adjust to suddenly having a pretty decent line up. Also, I figured, given the history behind them, the Destiel would start rolling a little bit faster than the others. 
> 
> Next up to bat: a cordial visit from your 'friendly,' neighborhood King of Hell, the next step in Operation Crack the Gates, and a trip to twisted Dreamland.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there everybody! To be completely honest, this chapter was a literal nightmare to write. I think I ended up re-writing and scrapping about four different things. Hopefully, with some luck, I picked out the things that needed to go in the story while the extra bits may end up in a collection of one-shots connected with this story later on. Once again, I'm really thrilled at all the support. Seriously. You guys make my week, so thank you so much! I hope that this chapter doesn't disappoint. 
> 
> As usual, there's not much to update warning-wise. Just some mild language and such. As always, I still have no claim on Supernatural or its lovely characters.

Despite frankly alarming evidence to the contrary, Gabriel does actually have a sense of timing. Castiel is aware that he simply tends to abuse that particular ability rather than use it to mutual advantage. With Sam and Adam sleeping and Michael deep in a restive state akin to sleep, Gabriel makes himself scarce until Castiel helps Dean navigate around the latest additions to the hotel room in the dark.

Dean’s hand is warm in his. The physical contact is pleasant, but it’s the – quite literally – blind, effortless faith that he has that Castiel will not lead him astray that means more. After the breaches of trust, even something so small is worth quite a bit. They stay quiet by mutual agreement until Dean is settled on the edge of one of the beds that likely were marginally different before Gabriel’s ‘renovations.’ Castiel pauses a moment as he stands at the bedside. Dean’s grip on his hand has shifted to enclose his wrist. Green eyes look up at him, just slightly to the left of their intended mark in the low lighting. His vessel’s arm is lifted with gentle guidance from strong, calloused hands until his fingertips brush Dean’s forehead. “Won’t sleep otherwise,” Dean explains in a whisper.

Castiel understands what it takes for Dean to ask for help, even obscurely, and suddenly regrets that it had to come to this for the words to be spoken aloud. He presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead before the same gentle grip urges him to wait. The wave of concern that pours off of Dean is strong enough that it’s projected into the air like static. Castiel wordlessly understands because he knows that the hunter always – infuriatingly at times – puts the well being of others above his own. “Sleep, Dean,” he instructs softly, “This much Grace will make no difference.”

A muscle works in Dean’s jaw, but he nods. Castiel appreciates that he doesn’t argue – doesn’t attempt to coddle the angel despite what he now knows. Instead, he squeezes Castiel’s wrist and pins him with a look that has no room for even a seed of doubt. “We’ll figure it out, Cas,” he vows in a whisper among the shadows, “We always do.”

The Enochian command to ‘sleep’ resonates through his Grace like a prayer. Dean’s mind quiets as his body slumps gently back against the sheets and pillows. The sleep will be peaceful and dreamless. Castiel leaves the room to allow the hunters their sleep and finds an alcove in the halls of the hotel where he is able to sit and commune with his siblings for a time without unwitting humans asking questions. He assures them that he is well, and they assure him that little has changed since he left to answer Michael’s call.

He doesn’t like making excuses for his absence, but Michael is right: there’s too much risk in reveling his return, even if Metatron is bound to know that they have Gabriel back now. Retaliation will probably be an issue, but for the first time in a long time, he thinks that they stand a real chance at making headway in this.

Gabriel approaches from wherever he’s been several hours later. He settles on the stair next to Castiel, and the younger is reminded of their youth, of being teased for his fascination with the strange little fish with the mutation that allowed it access to a few brief moments of safety on the shores of the earth’s primal waters. ‘ _Big plans for that fish, Castiel_ ,’ Gabriel had hummed, amused, as they watched together.

“I’m guessing Michael already gave you the ‘this is a really bad idea,’ speech, right?” the archangel comments. This time his voice isn’t amused or curious, and it reminds Castiel of how far they’ve come since they sat on the shore so long ago.

He understands the turn of conversation and resists the urge to rub a hand at the light ache in his chest. “Yes,” he answers, “Do you intend to do the same?”

Gabriel scoffs carelessly, but his eyes are sharp and serious, “I’m not stupid, Cassie. If you aren’t stopping for Mikey or even lover boy, I’m not wasting my breath. I’m just telling you that, if we win this one in time, you should let the Grace go. Being human doesn't sound that bad - not when you've got Dean-o.”

The thought is a luxury he thinks he could fight for. “I intend to,” he admits. Being human wasn’t easy, but he thinks that he could do it again, once his debts are settled and his wrongs righted.

Gabriel, thankfully, leaves it at that.

Michael wakes and joins them half an hour later. “Enjoy your nap?” Gabriel teases as their brother drops with far less grace than Castiel has ever seen from him on the stair below the two of them. With enough exposure to humanity, Castiel is aware that his hair is disordered, and his eyes are still somewhat unfocused.

“Yes, thank you,” Michael replies, features shifting with slight displeasure, “Though I’m not overly fond of dreaming.”

Castiel frowns. “They can be… unpleasant,” he agrees. Perhaps humans enjoy them, but angels aren’t built to dream, and it didn't particularly set well with Castiel at times.

Gabriel lifts a brow at them skeptically. “Yeah… You two _really_ need to get out more,” he announces before he shakes his head, “So here we are: bunch of screw-ups and losers facing down impossible odds. Again.” He grins at them, almost contradicting his previous words. “I guess if the ship’s sinking, I could go down with worse.”

Michael lifts a brow skeptically, but there’s something soft in the ebbs and flow of his Grace. Personally, Castiel enjoys the declaration of companionship layered under his brother’s seemingly careless words.

"Castiel,” Michael begins in the quiet that follows, “If you wish, I can lessen the unease from the Grace. It will still present a threat, but you need not be constantly reminded of that.”

It’s a somewhat surprising offer. Even with Metatron in charge of Heaven, Michael is still technically the commander of the Host. To use the abilities that come with that title for such a thing…

“Cassie’s just too shy to say ‘yes,’” Gabriel decides, the honey-colored eyes of his vessel shifting to meet Castiel’s blue, “C’mon, baby bro. Do the sensible thing, and say ‘no’ to an angsty man-pain session.”

Castiel frowns his disapproval at Gabriel before he turns to Michael. “I would be grateful,” he admits.

Tan fingers reach out, pressing gently against Castiel’s forehead as he’d done just hours before for Dean. Michael’s Grace is a blast of fire among the cold ache of the foreign Grace. It feels like a balm on an injury as the physical manifestations of the struggle between angel and Grace quiets. “Peace, little brother,” Michael tell him softly. Gabriel’s presence is a steady beacon at his side, and, even under brightness of his brothers, he can sense the hunters inside, sleeping in a rare moment of peace.

It feels, strangely, like home.

 

* * *

 

As soon as sunlight peeks through the cracks in the curtains, Sam and Dean are awake and quickly preparing to leave in case they’ve overstayed their welcome. Adam gets a crash course on where the rock salt, holy water, and guns go in the Impala’s trunk. He doesn’t really spend as much time memorizing the layout as he should since he’s too busy worrying about who’s going to walk around the corner and see the insanity Dean keeps in his car. 

It’s in the middle of packing that some random dude in a suit shows up out of nowhere all of six or so feet behind them. Adam goes for the holy water, and it’s probably only Dean’s grip on his arm that keeps him from slinging it. “Hold up,” Dean tells him, not taking his eyes off of the newcomer, “What do you want, Crowley?”

The guy – Crowley – eyes the two of them curiously. Adam gets the feeling that he’s about the equivalent of a particularly weird fungus in that gaze. He recognizes the look though: it doesn’t take a genius to figure out this guy isn’t human. “I heard about a few halos burning out around here and assumed – correctly, mind you – that you and Moose would be in the area.” He pauses for just a second, like he’s looking for Sam. “Speaking of which, where is Moose, Squirrel?” he asks apathetically, glancing at Adam, “Or did you trade him in for a new pet project? This one  _is_ a bit more interesting just from the looks of it.”

Dean gets as far as “Don’t play games—“ before Crowley ignores him in favor of frowning at the hotel door. It’s only seconds before Michael storms out, armed with a sword, and in full-out attack mode despite the fact that they’re _in a public parking lot_. Granted, there’s a snap to their other side – which turns out to be Gabriel – just before something electronic pops and fizzles nearby.

Crowley looks wide-eyed between the archangels closing in from either side before he turns to Dean with an angry demand to “Call them off! Call them off _now_.”

For a second, Adam isn’t even sure if he’s going to because Dean looks pretty damn smug about the whole thing. Gabriel reaches them first with a lazy saunter and a grin like a cat eyeing a particularly feisty mouse. “Hey, Mikey. We’re a couple of civilized guys, right?” he calls, “’Cause I’m sort of curious about what an overpowered crossroads demon is doing screwing around with the Winchesters.”

Michael frowns at Gabriel and tilts his head just a fraction, curious but evidentially willing to take the lead from his brother and temporarily hold back on the smiting. He at least shifts his sword so that it won’t be obvious between the cars parked around them. It’s sort of… awe-inspiring to see the guy in full out angel mode, especially when it’s obvious that, despite everything, he and Gabriel work together like a machine. “You must be Crowley,” Michael gathers, “Castiel has spoken of you.” Judging by the way he says it, whatever Castiel has said hasn’t exactly been flattering.

Crowley frowns, eyes occasionally shifting like he’s looking for the weak link here. “Always my displeasure to meet another member of the family,” he replies, glancing briefly at something just over Michael’s right shoulder, “Michael, I presume?”

Gabriel frowns like he’s pouting as he leans with a little too much casual ease against Sam’s car. “What? I take a vacation for a couple of centuries and I’m chopped liver?”

“Well maybe you shoulda thought of that before the whole ‘Trickster’ thing,” Dean puts in with an all too amused, toothy grin as he purposefully tacks on, “Gabriel.” Gabriel, naturally, winks at the mention and doesn’t even bother with being sly about it.

“ _Bullocks_ ,” Crowley mutters. It takes less than a few seconds of calculation before he decides to hold his hands up in a gesture of peace. He turns his eyes significantly toward Dean. “Well? Are we going to talk, or are you going to sic your pets on me?” he asks, looking weirdly calm for a demon surrounded by a pair of archangels.

Dean looks proud as Gabriel and Michael follow their ‘guest’ inside. Adam, frankly, is pretty confused. “…Just what the hell was that about?” he asks.

“That, kid,” Dean tells him as he closes the trunk, “Was the King of Hall getting bitch slapped by Karma.”

 

* * *

 

Gabriel is good at pretending.

Case and point, despite all the grins and lazy bravado, he’s distinctly _not happy_ with this latest turn of events. He figures they could afford a night to recover because Michael is good with wards, and anyone with half a brain should give pause to haphazardly attacking their little band of misfit powerhouses.

But the thing about Metatron is that, yeah, he’s got an ego problem, but he’s _smart_ , and they don’t have the added advantage of him needing something from the Winchesters like Lucifer did. The longer they wait around, the bigger target they’re painting on their backs, and any demon crafty and powerful enough to scheme and claw his way up into the throne of Hell is going to require some special precautions, no matter how good Michael is at smiting shit.

He’s pretty sure Sam gets the same idea from the way his eyes glance between Crowley and the angels and immediately darken. There’re a few quips exchanged between Sam and Crowley, but Gabriel doesn’t pay much attention because it looks like the hunter has it more than under control. Dean and Adam shuffle in a few minutes later, followed quickly by a rumpled-looking Castiel. He takes in the sight and frowns, “Why are you here, Crowley?”

“Funny. Squirrel here asked me the same question,” Crowley replies, tipping his head slightly toward Dean. A pointed look from Michael seems to prompt him into sighing and getting on with it. Michael, Gabriel knows all too well, has that effect on people – especially when they come equipped to see the agitated twitch of imposing wings that comes with it. “I thought I’d pop in for a spell and _cordially_ inform you three twits that _the bloody Cage is empty_.” His eyes shift from Michael to Adam before they go back to Sam, Dean, and Castiel. “But it seems as though you’re already well on your way to collecting the box set.”

It’s pretty impressive bravado. Gabriel would give Crowley that much; it’s at least as good as his own, and he could normally appreciate that. They’re fighting a clock, though, and the archangel-turned-Trickster _really_ doesn’t want to think about being stuck behind holy fire and stifling sigils again. It sucked the first time, and he wants to avoid the repeat performance. “Kinda behind the times there, Goldfinger,” he points out idly.

Michael crosses his arms, which, if Gabriel knows his brother, is specifically meant to show off the flash of silver sword still held casually in his hand. Michael's just subtle like that. “You intended to set the Winchesters after Lucifer,” he surmises flatly.

Gabriel resists the urge to frown when he sees Sam tense up, but the hunter proudly holds his ground. Crowley’s eyes narrow because they’re in dangerous territory now. Michael’s bluntness is either going to win them this round or lose it for them. “So… What?” Crowley counters, lifting a brow smartly, “You think the Big Boss is going to be satisfied with a pleasant sightseeing tour of the planet while you lot play footsies with Metatron?”

It’s a damn valid point, but Gabriel’s too good at acting and Michael is too good at impersonating a brick wall to give him the credit for it.

“Well,” Gabriel replies with a careless shrug, “I guess it’d be in your best interest to make sure we kick Metatron outta the club house fast.”

He enjoys the way Crowley spins around to face him, genuine surprise written in his features for just the briefest of seconds. He glances at Michael and Castiel next. Michael lifts a brow challengingly while Castiel frowns. Since they obviously aren’t speaking up, he goes for the supposed emotional ‘weak link’ of the Winchester-Milligan clan. “You _can’t_ be serious,” he counters skeptically, “You two bleeding hearts are going to stick your head in the dirt and ignore this?”

“What can we say, Crowley?” Dean responds with his usual bravado, “Our disaster quota is kinda booked full at the moment.” It’s a bluff. Gabriel can see the tension around Dean’s eyes, and Sam and Adam aren’t doing so well hiding their innate tension at just the subject. 

Not that Gabriel really blames them. He can only imagine what it’d be like to face Lucifer in all his twisted glory as a human.

He beats that thought down because he’s got a reputation to uphold as a heartless bastard for the moment.

Crowley makes a low noise of frustration before he turns back to Michael and Gabriel. “And what would the prince of Heaven want from me, hm?”

Michael make the classic ‘ _Not happy_ ’ face, complete with flickering light show and the agitated swoop of wings that brings it all to a halt. “Do not patronize me,” he warns. The hunters and little Castiel might go all wide-eyed and defensive over the display, but Gabriel’s actually _seen_ Michael lose it completely. Between him and Lucifer going batshit and ripping each other to shreds, it's probably the single more terrifying thing he's ever witnessed. And his resume has some impressive acts of Biblical fury on it. 

This right here is just posturing at most. 

Crowley lifts his brows but maintains an impressively level head. “Didn’t mean to step on your skirt tails, darling. But seriously. Let’s get a move on, shall we? Neither of us has all day.”

Well crap. Maybe Gabriel _has_ underestimated this guy because he looks like he’s just found Michael’s weakness for straightforward practicality and exploited the hell out of it. And Michael just takes the bait, “I want information on my brother’s movement, this Knight of Hell I understand you’re in competition with, and anything your... underlings hear of Metatron’s followers. We will also require a flame of Hellfire.”

Crowley huffs, pleased now that he knows that he has leverage of some sort. “Don’t want much, do you, princess?” he mutters before he nods, “Fine. We have a deal.”

“Great!” Gabriel announces with overtly false cheer, “Now get out before Mikey here gets stabby on principle.”

Crowley doesn’t waste time obliging.

 

* * *

 

To their credit, the gang is ready to roll out of the lot within fifteen minutes of the impromptu distraction. Gabriel announces that he’s going to bug Dean and Castiel on the trip back. Adam’s guessing it’s really so that, if they run into more trouble, there’s a literal powerhouse in either vehicle… and probably also because Gabriel is ready to tease the hell out of the new couple. When Dean protests on account of the integrity of his Baby and his sanity, a frown from Castiel is about all it takes to change his mind. Adam laughs and thumps Dean’s shoulder, “C’mon, man. Play nice with the future in-laws.”

A look of outright horror dawns on Dean’s face. Judging by the way his eyes shoot to Michael and Gabriel, it has more to do with putting two and two together and coming up with ‘the Host’ and not the fact that Adam knows about the two of them. Gabriel, naturally, doesn’t miss the chance to jump in. He strides up, grins shamelessly at Dean, and announces cheerfully, “Just wait ‘til Mikey and I give you the shovel talk!”

Dean glares at Adam. “You suck,” he pronounces dully even though they both know it’s teasing at best.

The brothers part ways with Castiel asking why they need a shovel if they have no current intention of digging up poltergeist bones. Adam gets a kick out of it, and Sam shakes his head.

Michael pulls Gabriel over to Sam’s car as Adam is getting in. He hands the slighter angel what looks like a decorated animal horn with a private, nostalgic smile tempting the tense line of his lips, “This, I believe, is yours, little brother. Try not to misplace it again?”

The snide, mischievous guy that Adam has pinned Gabriel for slides away in a moment of surprised-spurned sincerity. His fingers close carefully over the horn, and he grins at Michael. “Don’t ever stop being a smart ass, Michael. You’re much more fun this way,” he announces. In the blink of an eye, the horn is just gone.

It probably says something about Adam’s life recently that he’s not even really surprised by that.

They pack into the cars after that. Adam takes the first shift driving while Sam rides shotgun and starts working on some of the research he’s apparently already collected on the other things they’ll need for the ritual. Michael lounges in the back seat and opens up the one dollar, spiral notebook that is, hilariously, probably going to be one of the more valuable pieces in the Men of Letters archives, especially since it’s pretty obvious that Michael isn’t just stopping at the sigils Sam drew earlier. 

He thinks he catches a glimpse of lists and a few remarkably well done sketches done in confident, bold pen strokes when he trades off the wheel to Sam after all six of them pack into a dinner for lunch. _That_ nearly ends in chaos when Gabriel decides to use a spoon to catapult a cherry at Sam’s forehead for ‘committing treason’ by claiming that dessert shouldn’t be its own meal.

It's at that point Adam decides that packing six grown ass men into a booth is just asking for disaster anyway.

Regardless, by the time they’re back in the car, he's pretty sure they’re in for a really weird few months. While Sam takes the wheel and possibly comes up with ways to prank-proof the Bunker from the inevitable war between Dean and Gabriel (which sounds all but impossible), Adam picks up his first aid book and dives into a review of stabilizing stab wounds. He remembers more of it than he thought he would and ends up glancing more and more often at the folder of Sam’s research wedged next to the center console. Curiosity eventually wins out, and he grabs it. When Sam doesn’t protest – actually looks sort of proud in the rearview mirror – Adam opens it up and starts looking. There are newspaper articles with sticky notes pasted to them and several photocopies of old books and printouts of internet articles and web pages. Taped to the side of the folder is a list on a piece of notebook paper, written in the neat, small script that Adam has seen in Michael’s notebook.

On it, ‘Horn of Judgement’ is crossed off in red pen. Just below that is ‘petrified Hellfire.’ Adam… honestly doesn’t want to think on that one too long since Crowley is apparently on the case. The only fire he remembers from the Cage is Michael himself because everything else seemed like it was submerged under arctic ice – frozen to the point it was like constantly drowning.

Part of him already knows, however, that the cold probably wasn’t the Cage itself, and he wonders just how Sam managed to survive that at all.

He moves on before lunch stops agreeing with him. ‘Blood of the faithful’ sounds pretty ominous, but he's learned that, more often than not, when something like this calls for blood, it’s usually just a couple of drops instead of the whole ritual sacrifice thing. ‘Grace of the Healer’ stumps Adam completely, and ‘Blade of the Ordained’ is right up there with it.

‘Jewel of the Morningstar’ is circled with a what looks like a few guesses as to what that actually means written next to it in shaky letters that have to be Sam’s. 

Adam has never been a particularly orthodox church goer, but he’s also been reading up on files from the Men of Letters. He recognizes the moniker and goes pale. Michael evidentially senses his reaction because Adam thinks he sees him glance up in his peripheral. Adam decides to bite the bullet and shows Michael the list, pointing to the item in question that has set him off in the first place.

Green eyes shift briefly toward Sam, like he’s gauging whether or not this is a good time to have this conversation. Evidentially he decides it is because he looks back at the list and Adam with his expression set. “He was… glorious once, my brother. His wings were a sight to behold. The envy of our siblings... before Hell,” Michael explains, eyes shaded and dark with old emotion seeping through the cracks of his control. A muscle near his mouth twitches his lips briefly into a parody of a smile. “What we seek,” he concludes as he meets Adam’s gaze, “you would call a feather.”

Adam looks between his friend and his brother. Sam’s hands are gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. His expression is tense and tight with old memories and a primal sort of dread. Michael looks torn between loss, hurt, and slow burning anger. 

“A feather from before the Cage,” Sam clarifies, “Where are we supposed to get that?”

Michael looks grim when he replies, “At the place of the original Fall.” 

Needless to say, they don’t talk much until they stop for gas and to change drivers a few hours later. Adam finds himself missing the easy mood of the day before.

 

 

 

In the day that follows, Adam actually ends up helping Sam and Castiel with research, with occasional input from Dean and Gabriel, while Michael busies himself with reinforcing the wards. According to an off-handed comment from Gabriel, it’s time consuming work since the Bunker’s wards are intricate as it is, which forces anyone enforcing them to work around what’s already there. Dean looks ridiculously pleased with that fact. When Adam calls him out on it, he replies with a shrug and “Hey, that apocalypse crap made our lives living hell for two years: a day’s worth of inconvenience is fair.”

That he says it so easily means that it’s probably some weird form of progress.

Either way, Adam quickly learns that picking up dead languages is going to need to be a new hobby if this is the particular brand of insanity he’s stuck with for the rest of his life. Given that his oldest brother and an angel are an item, and his current ‘friend count' consists of the friggin’ _archangel Michael_ , he’s guessing it’s safe to say that it is. He ends up sticking with the English while Sam takes the Latin and Greek and Castiel digs into the Enochian. There’s little to no mention of any weird crap on the list in any of the reports Adam reads. Judging by the look of frustration, Sam and Castiel aren’t making much progress either.

Gabriel interrupts them around the time the words on the page start looking like blurry little ants. “Alright, _I’m_ starting to get a headache just watching you bozos,” he announces, smacking his hands down on the table, “C’mon. Take a break, or I’ll snap up dirty limericks in place of all your books.”

Adam is half tempted to keep reading just to see what Gabriel can come up with, but the thought of a break proves just too damn tempting to pass up. He ends up leaning back in his chair with an arm slung over his eyes while he hears Sam shuffling around to clean things up. The fact that he’s not complaining probably says something about their abysmal success rate for the day.

Michael walks in toward the end of dinner. Red paint flecks the edge of his shirt and a small portion of his cheek. Otherwise he looks mostly unruffled and is probably the only one of the group that looks remotely satisfied with himself. Somehow it doesn’t surprise Adam that it takes something so evidentially tedious and technical for him to actually unwind a little. Gabriel calls him on it with a “…This is totally _not_ what I meant when I said you needed a hobby.”

There’s no huge argument, no lightbulbs randomly popping, and no King of Hell dropping by to stir up tensions. The only thing is the awkward increase in the weird-ass eye-sex between Dean and Castiel. When Adam catches Sam watching them, the older hunter shakes his head, completely missed by the couple in question. It gets an amused snort from Gabriel and a mouthed ‘ _their version of footsies_ ’ at Sam while Adam just sighs.

The minute Adam is finished with dinner, he retreats from the awkwardness to the firing range. He fires off a few rounds, pleased with the progress he’s making. He doesn’t even notice that he’s been followed until he turns around to find Michael leaning against the wall, watching carefully. He pulls the earphones off after he flicks the safety on and sets the pistol aside with an expectant brow raised. “What?” he asks with teasing sarcasm, “You want a turn?”

Michael frowns with that pinch in his brow that says he’s holding back a comment about the weapon. “No, thank you,” he replies instead.

Adam huffs and rolls his eyes as he cleans up his mess. “Dude, I’m not Dean; you don’t have to watch what you say,” he points out. He gets it. Really. There’s bad blood between his brothers and Michael, and both sides seem to be doing a good job of trying to tip-toe around it until it can be marked as ‘water under the bridge.’ Somehow Adam got out of that, but he guesses that’s probably natural when Michael spent decades in the Cage protecting him.

A gray t-shirt invades his peripheral, causing Adam to look up. The dark-haired angel is close, within inches, but it’s not really weird. Just normal after all the increasingly comfortable casual touches. He wonders sometimes if it’s just that easy because they’re technically still adjusting to having barriers between Grace and soul, even if Adam’s memory of all of it is spotty at best.

“Show me,” Michael prompts him, pointing to the pistol. His expression is curious and filled with a desire to understand. It's a far cry from the stone-faced commander he'd projected around Crowley, which makes Adam appreciate that he gets to see the being behind those defenses.

So Adam basically verbally vomits the speeches that Dean and Sam had given him weeks ago. Maybe it’s dumb to give the whole safety lecture to an archangel, but Adam does anyway because he knows Michael well enough to get that he won’t appreciate something being left out. The first shot is a bit off. After that though, there’re three neat holes in the red bulls eye on the target. 

“That's... not even fair,” the human gripes half-heartedly. So, yeah, maybe Michael is _the_ warrior with inhuman senses, but still…

Michael’s curiosity is apparently satisfied because he sets the firearm aside and turns back to Adam with a frown. “I prefer my sword,” he says plainly, “This is inefficient on any other plane aside from the physical and lacks a certain… finesse.”

Adam smirks because apparently his request has been heeded. “Don’t let Dean hear you say that,” he warns. Michael hums an agreement and proceeds to step back while Adam finishes cleaning up. It’s comfortably quiet until the job is finished. “You’re not just here to learn how to shoot,” Adam points out when he’s done, “What’d you need?”

Michael looks him over once with the sort of stare that says that he’s more looking _through_ flesh and bone to the soul underneath. Whatever he sees causes a deep frown, which… is probably _really_ bad. “I’ve recovered enough to begin the ritual,” he replies calmly, but his tone is more distant than a few minutes before, “I suggest we start as soon as you’re ready.”

Adam swallows down the lump in his throat. The floor is suddenly stupidly interesting, which is dumb because it’s filthy. It’s not even that he doesn’t want Michael in his head; the angel has seen everything there is to see upstairs. It’s more that Adam has to _relive_ that sort of shit, and the past couple of years haven’t exactly been pretty, even if the Cage bits aren’t that clear. But the alternative isn’t exactly an option. So he mentally kicks himself with a ‘ _Man up, Milligan_ ’ that sounds suspiciously like Dean ( _which is a whole different list of mental health alarms if Dean_ friggin’ _Winchester is apparently his subconscious’ idea of a motivator_ ). He sets his jaw and meets Michael’s gaze with a nod, “Let’s do it then.”

The twitch at Michael’s cheeks turns into a small smile with something like pride in his eyes. And, yeah, it sort of makes Adam more than a little proud that he’s apparently capable of sparking that look, even in the face of what they’re about to do.

They end up in Adam’s room because apparently the familiar setting will be more “grounding,” whatever the hell that means. They end up sitting on the duvet, Adam near the head of the bed while Michael sits facing him at the foot of the mattress. With just the low light of the lamp, they probably look more like a couple of students gearing up for exams rather than an archangel and his former vessel preparing for some older-than-dirt ritual.

Michael catches his eyes, serious but confident, like he knows the exact face he needs to project to keep Adam at ease. “We’ll begin with a single memory,” he explains, “The ritual is different for each individual, but the key component is that you must find a means to face the emotion.”

Adam huffs dryly with a shake of his head. “Because it wouldn’t be right if there wasn’t some vague-ass instructions tacked on.”  

Michael lifts a brow but seems more amused than off put by the commentary. “If you’d prefer the metaphysical theory, I could attempt to explain,” he offers even though it sounds like he already knows the answer well before Adam shoots him a dull, uninterested look. He takes that – correctly – as a prompt to continue. “We’ll begin with just one memory to avoid becoming… overwhelmed.”

“…I don’t have to tell you that doesn’t sound encouraging, right?” Adam points out.

Michael tilts his head just a bit. “Perhaps not,” he admits, “I’m aware of your soul’s limits, Adam. My purpose is to break the trance when you reach them and to reassure you until you do.”

Adam takes a deep breath and nods. “Alright. Let’s just…” he trails off, making a vague gesture with his hands.

Michael, to his credit, doesn’t pause for extra attempts at stalling and simply reaches forward. He rests a palm over Adam’s heart and closes his eyes. It’s a gentle, warm weight that quickly feels like the gateway for a flood of fire.

It’s almost like saying ‘yes’ all over again. The brush of Michael’s inhuman consciousness is familiar among the controlled chaos of his Grace.

And then it’s shut behind a wall, leaving Adam gasping at the wave of vertigo and grasping for proverbial footing.

“…am? Adam?”

He sucks in a breath of air, and something tight loosens its death grip on his lungs. Michael’s Grace is still there, he realizes, but it’s curled up like a lazy cat around the peripheral of his awareness. He’s pretty sure that’s the only reason his weird-ass dreamscape ends up looking like the porch of his old house instead of some freaky dream-parody of it. It’s halfway through sunset, and he wonders which memory this is supposed to be because he didn’t exactly make it a habit to just sit around outside much. 

He turns to the right, expecting to see Michael only to come face-to-face with one John Winchester.

It startles him enough that, just for a fraction of a second, the whole landscape blurs and overlays with lines of Adam’s bedroom. The Grace warms like a shield around him, urging him to calm down without words. Somehow it works, and there’s a strange moment where Adam wonders if this is what it would have been like if he’d taken control while he’d been relegated to riding shotgun in his own body.

He pushes that aside because John is talking now. “Had some business at work that needed to be wrapped up,” he says, “Or I would have gotten here earlier.”

Oh.

This is the worst birthday in a shitty line of birthdays because this is the one John pretty much missed. And, yeah, maybe time has made Adam less pissed about it, and maybe now that he knows that ‘work’ probably means saving some unfortunate bastard‘s ass, he gets it, but… Apparently he’s still got enough ‘daddy issues’ that they ping on Michael’s Adam-angst radar.

What he wants to say is ‘ _What was it this time? Vampire? Wendigo? The ghouls?_ ’ What comes out instead it a gruff and less than half-hearted, “Doesn’t matter.” Because that’s what he’d said back then. The Grace hums unhappily, which Adam doesn’t get because what the hell else is he supposed to do? Not follow the script?

This, right here, he thinks, is the problem with vague-ass instructions because apparently they’re stuck to playing some crappy version of charades.

John frowns, but there’s a strange weight in his eyes that Adam thinks he only gets now that he knows that ‘work’ isn’t just fixing some car without bothering to call. A hand settles on Adam’s shoulder, “I’ll stay through the night. We’ll go catch a game in the morning.”

John is supposed to head inside while Adam sits on the porch and sulks for half an hour, if they’re following the memory. Michael apparently hadn’t okayed that last time, so Adam turns to face his father instead. “You got us killed, y’know,” he states as frankly as he can. Probably not the best job since Adam is a shitty actor, and his throat tries to close up on the last word. Maybe it’s stupid because he _knows_ this is all in his head – that he’s talking to a figment of his imagination. Still… It feels real enough, and he’s got no idea how to get more literal about ‘facing emotion’ than this.

It looks like something different is happening at least because as soon as Adam deviates from the script, so does John. The weighted look of sadness and secrets that constantly burdened his father’s shoulders shifts to anger that Adam never actually saw. The change is startling, but Michael’s Grace offers silent support and a wave of reassurance. “What’d you expect? Me to drag you two into this mess, too?”

“No!” Adam counters, frustrated, “But you could’ve at least given me a damn clue what was gonna bust through the door to get to _you_.” He huffs, frustrated and feeling dumb for basically yelling at his own imagination. He meets pretend-John’s gaze for a minute. It’s… _not right_ , and that sends the anger deflating right out of him with a long exhale.

“He didn’t get mad like that – not at us,” he points out with a vague flip of his hand. It doesn't seem to affect pretend-John at all, which just makes the differences between this and reality that much starker in comparison. It's sort of a boost of confidence in a weird way. “He always looked like the world was gonna come crumbling down any minute – like trying to patch a hole in a boat when you’re already sinking.”

Somehow he knows the disconnect between this representation and his actual memories has to do with the crap they’re trying to fight back against, so he guesses that Michael isn’t completely incapable of passing on complex information like this. It's just in the form of impressions instead of words. And apparently he’s also on the right track because he gets an urging nudge from the Grace to keep going.

Pretend-John, strangely enough, seems taken aback by the assessment. The anger gives way to something more familiar, “You think I knew this was gonna happen?”

Adam thinks about it. It’d probably be easier to just pin all of the crazy shit from the past couple of years on some irresponsibility of John Winchester’s, but… When he thinks about it, he’s not so sure that’s all there was to it.

“Don’t get me wrong: real-you screwed up. Big. Left us alone without _any_ clue what was out there. Mom…” he trails off with an angry shake of his head. He shifts, folding his arms and drawing his knees in, defensive and reflective. “I hate that you never told me why you were always gone, and I hate that mom paid the price for your choices – that you didn’t even leave us _backup_. I’ll probably never completely forgive that,” he finishes with a scowl and an old weight on his shoulders, “But dammit, I _get_ it, okay? It wasn’t spite, and it wasn’t because mom and me were just some stupid, convenient replacement family. You stayed away 'cause you though it'd keep us safe, and you were wrong.”

 _Dammit_.

That’s all he’s got. Sure, it seems abrupt, but he’s said all he knows to say, and this is bad enough as it is. “Mike? Care and share done yet?” he calls at the sky because he wants out.

The lines of the room superimpose over the yard and sunset, and Adam is left clutching at his knees to keep from getting nauseous. It takes a minute to get his bearings, and in that time, Michael doesn’t move aside from putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him stable. “You did well – for a first attempt,” the angel tells him before adding on, “That was surprisingly brief.”

Michael’s voice is a welcome change, steady and not touched by disappointment or condescension. Then again, if anybody outside of the Winchesters gets family issues, Adam figures it’d probably be Michael and his siblings.

Adam tries to shrug off Michael’s gaze, but it doesn’t go so well. “Look, it'll be fine. Okay?” he assures, too dismissively. Michael tilts his head curiously and doesn’t seem to buy it, but he lets it go anyway. He pulls his hands back carefully sets his palms on his knees in that way that says he’s trying to mimic something he’s seen someone else do and isn’t sure if it suits him yet. Apparently it does because the lines of his shoulders smooth into something more natural.

Adam sighs and leans back so that his head rests against the head board. Maybe it makes him an ass, but he takes the liberty of stretching his leg out just to find some comforting contact against the outside line of Michael’s outer thigh. Considering that he doesn’t move, Adam assumes that he’s still okay with it. As if to prove his concerns invalid, it’s only about half a minute before a warm hand settles on his shin and starts working soft patterns into the muscle. It’s enough to make him shut his eyes. “Are you certain you’re well?” he’s asked after a minute.

A half-smirk pulls at his frown. “No. This ritual of yours sucks,” he admits bluntly. It doesn’t seem to offend, which is probably good all things considered. The resulting quiet gives him a minute to reorganize the knot of emotion from the past couple of minutes. It lets him go back to a conversation that he’s let slide since Sam and Dean have been around. “There’s something wrong with your wings, isn’t there?” he asks, “More than Cas and Gabriel's, I mean.”

Judging by the way Michael’s fingers freeze just long enough for Adam to notice, it’s probably not the best way to bring it up. Emotional distress doesn’t exactly lend itself to careful wording. He’s about to apologize when Michael replies with a stilted admission of “You aren’t wrong.”

His eyes open to find Michael’s tense expression and the strange set of his shoulders. Damn. That’s not what he meant to do. He sits up and curls his leg back. “Hey,” he calls, succeeding only in getting green eyes to snap to his, “You okay?”

“Yes,” Michael replies, “Hell leaves its marks on my kind just as it does yours. Fighting our way back to earth exacerbated the injuries.”

Adam eyes the careful set of Michael’s shoulders. He knows Michael, and he know that, for all his careful restraint and discipline, he _likes_ fighting - testing his skill and letting go to some degree - so he guesses it isn't the fighting that was the problem. He's not exactly a vain guy either, so he doesn't think that it's the 'marks' themselves that are the problem. “So you’re hurting?” he guesses.

Michael makes a face that says that Adam is close but not quite right. “Angels don’t conceive of pain like humans do,” he explains, “But the sensation is… unpleasant at times.”

Coming from Michael, Adam translates it mean something like ‘ _Holy shit, is it annoying, but I’m too tough to tell you_.’ Adam’s frown deepens. “Can Gabriel help?” he asks, “Like you did with his arm? Maybe Cas?”

Michael shakes his head. “They’ll heal given time,” he assures. There’s something distant in his eyes that runs deeper than just the ache. Adam lets it go because he thinks, between the two of them, there're enough ghosts in the room already without adding more. It's pretty obvious this is one Michael doesn't want to talk about.

He huffs a sigh and tells Michael to stay still while he gets up and walks around to the foot of the bed. He knows that he’s sparked the angel’s curiosity, but he obeys, even to the point of falling into that unnatural stillness only angels are capable of. It does wonders for easing Adam’s hesitation as he snorts, “Dude, you aren’t being chased by a T. Rex. I didn’t mean you had to quit moving completely.”

He sort of regrets not being able to see the inevitable look of confusion that comment sparks. “…Tyrannosaurus Rex were capable of—“

“C’mon,” Adam cuts in, easing his hands down on Michael’s shoulders, “ _Jurassic Park_ is a classic, pseudo-science aside.” Apparently Michael has adjusted pretty quickly to the fact that ‘movie logic’ and ‘actual logic’ are often pretty far apart because his confusion subsides. At least about the T. Rex comment. “So, if angel mojo can’t help, something human might. A little. Maybe,” he explains awkwardly, “Just… tell me if something hurts.”

Honestly, he’s been curious about how hosting an angel affects the physiology of a vessel, and he confirms after all of thirty seconds that they’re completely capable of carrying tension in the skeletal-muscular system when his thumb finds a knot of tension. Michael lets out a breath, and Adam is just about to pause when the well-defined, covered back under his hands shifts slightly to give him access to frankly impressive tension, just above Michael’s shoulder blades. 

He wonders if he imagines the sensation like velvet, edged in steel and covered in static that he occasionally feels brush against his palms, or if maybe if all the weird shit going on his with soul lets him guess at some impression of wings. He thinks that it’s worth either way it just to hear the dazed relief in Michael’s “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

For Sam, the week is counted in an accumulation of tally marks on Adam’s ‘days without incident’ sticky note and the team’s mutual frustration at the lack of information on most of the crap they need. With each unsuccessful day, the metaphorical clock seems to count down one step closer to the inevitable explosion of growing tensions.

Not that Sam doesn’t understand why. There’s still bad blood and memories, and the lack of progress isn’t exactly doing anything good for morale. Not to mention, something has Dean on edge, which puts Sam on edge out of ingrained instinct. He thinks that Castiel knows exactly what’s going on, which frustrates him even more because they aren’t sharing. On top of _that_ , they all know which days Adam and Michael end up working on the whole ‘anti-demon’ thing since Adam has a tendency to look distant and snap at anything in range for at least twelve hours afterward.

So, naturally, after nearly a week and a half, when they finally dig up a few lucky hits, Dean calls a team meeting. Gabriel smacks his hands down on the table to bring the meeting to order an hour later, startling just about everyone but Michael and Castiel. “So! Enough moping. Let’s get to business, people,” he announces, “We’ve got our blood donor of the week, we’ve got my horn, and our friendly, neighborhood King of Hell is bringing on the Hellfire. Next up is the Grace. I can still do long-range travel, so I’ll take that.”

Castiel frowns deeply, “You have yet to fully recover. Traveling that far will be taxing, even with pagan magic.”

“Which is why one of these yahoos gets to come with me and temporarily pledge themselves to Loki,” Gabriel announces with a wicked smirk aimed at the humans in the room.

“Oh, _hell_  no!” Dean snaps right around the same time Michael cuts in with “Adam cannot.”

Nonplused, Gabriel leans across the table toward Sam and wiggles his eyebrows, “How ‘bout it Samoose? Be my cheat code for the day?”

Sam is going to protest. He’s had more than enough with supernatural entities making grabby hands for his soul, thanks.

Obviously Gabriel reads the thoughts on his face because some of the mischief softens just a bit around the eyes. “Just hear me out first. Souls burn off a lot of residual power, and you guys are pretty much the Bentleys of souls – all the bells and whistles. You say some fancy words in Old Norse, I get access to some of that mojo, and I release you from service as soon as we get back here." 

Dean is watching them carefully. It says something about their growth through the Gadreel disaster that he doesn’t just jump in and say ‘no’ for Sam on principle. Sam really hopes that this is the beginnings of the trust that was originally broken all the way back at Stanford finally building back into something substantial.

“And then we’re even for the Grace you gave me?” Sam asks carefully. It’s the first time he’s brought it up because it’s a weird subject to breach with a guy that he knows a lot better than he should for the few times they’ve actually met.

Something in that drains the humor right out of Gabriel’s face. His eyes flick to Castiel, who shakes his head, and then Michael, who frowns. Soon enough, he pins Sam with a look that’s way more serious than Sam is used to seeing from him outside of discussions of literal apocalyptic scale. “You don’t owe me jack shit, Sam,” he announces, “The point of a gift isn’t to bank up favors for a rainy day. You trust me to do this? Great. If not, we just find another way. Probably with a plane trip and a boat ride - complete with gratuitous boat-themed karaoke.”

When it’s said like that it sounds… weirdly comfortable. It dawns on Sam that it’s probably because Gabriel has torn down the walls of tricks and double-meanings and made it surprisingly straight forward. It’s not the loss of control from Meg, not the honeyed words of belonging from Lucifer, and it’s certainly not being tricked by Dean and Gadreel. It's just what it is, and it's not even possession. It probably helps that... strangely enough, he actually trusts Gabriel's motivations. He guesses that's what happens when they've both technically died for a mutual goal.

“Okay,” he manages with surprising ease, “Let’s do it.”

Gabriel actually looks surprised, but the watchful, sharp shadows around his eyes give way to careful pride as he leans back to lounge in his seat. “Are you sure, Sammy?” Dean asks, “’Cause he’s right; you don’t owe him a damn thing.”

Sam smiles a little because this is the relationship he remembers with his older brother. They watch each other’s backs, and, judging by the concerned look from Adam, he’s steadily becoming incorporated into their dynamic. It feels like he’s finally getting his footing back on solid ground, and it feels surprisingly good. “It’s okay, Dean,” he assures because really. It actually is for a change.

“So, dumb question,” Adam announces in the strange silence afterward, “What’s the difference between normal Hellfire and petrified Hellfire?”

“An angel’s influence,” Michael replies easily enough.

Sam catches Castiel eyeing something just to the left of Michael’s head, blue eyes soft but shaded. “You will need help, brother,” he says softly.

Michael nods, the set of his shoulders shifting to something slightly more comfortable. “I will also acquire the feather,” he announces, “I believe it would be… fitting.”

“And I’m not letting you go back there alone,” Gabriel warns, “So stow the angst session and wait for Sammy and me to get back.” Michael takes it relatively graciously with a ‘very well,’ even when Castiel announces that he will accompany them as well. “So that leaves the blade,” Gabriel finishes up, “Which I’m guessing will be Cassie and Dean-o.”

Dean frowns, confused and skeptical, “Why?”

“It was given as a gift from the line of humans who last guarded it to Charon as a bargaining chip to enter Hades,” Michael announces. Clearly he isn’t happy about that, but he’s also pragmatic enough to not go into that. “I doubt he will part with it willingly.”

Dean shoots him a dull look, “Seriously? You want Cas and me to kick the boat dude's ass? That’s friggin’ lame."

“Says the guy who got the shit kicked out of him by Paris Hilton,” Adam counters. When Dean shoots Sam a betrayed look, Sam doesn’t even bother to hide his amusement. “At least you _get_ a job. What am I supposed to do? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs?”

“You should train with me while we complete the cleansing ritual,” Michael answers, “The less threatened you feel in combat, the less likely you are to instinctively draw on the Grace or darkness in your soul.” He pauses for a moment and thinks it over before he decides, “If the cleansing is successful, you may also accompany us to collect the feather. It would be a test – to see if Lucifer’s latent Grace prompts a response.”

Adam looks pleased with that. Everyone else looks satisfied to at least have a direction to go in. Gabriel calls the meeting to order with a wink at Sam and instructions to meet him at ten a.m. sharp the next morning.

Sam honestly isn't sure what to expect, but at least it's a start. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go! ...only slightly late. Just as a little teaser of the next chapter: the epic journeys of an archangel and his faithful Moose, Dean realizes that kicking the ass of a mythological ferryman is _probably_ easier said than done, and Michael and Adam entertain another surprise guest at the Bunker.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I officially goofed. Sorry this took so long! Turns out minor house renovations and the general chaos of moving is taking a little more out of me than I thought. And I’m sort of hitting some dead ends on my internship project on top of that, which is pretty stressful. I tried hard to keep all of that out of mind while I wrote this chapter, so I really hope that none of that is reflected in the quality. On a much happier note, thanks again for all the continued support everyone! I love seeing kudos, subscriptions, and comments. They make me ridiculously happy instead of stupidly stressed out. 
> 
> In other news, I’m tentatively trying out Tumblr because I’ve been told I’m super late to that party. Check it out here if you want: http://sanguine-scales.tumblr.com/
> 
> As usual, the warnings include canon-typical violence and minor language. If I’ve forgotten anything, feel free to let me know. I don’t have a beta, so all the little typos I missed are my doing, and I apologize. As stated in the previous chapters, this is a purely fanmade work, and I have absolutely no claim to Supernatural or its characters.

Apparently the Amazon Rainforest is pretty much as beautiful as every documentary Sam has binged on while Dean was out doing his own thing over the years. The problem is that, for the first ten minutes, it’s all he can do to keep his stomach in line with the rest of him because Air Angel is first class flying compared to Air Trickster. Gabriel, to his credit, is pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. He brushes a hand over Sam’s back and threads calming Grace and magic through the touch to fight back the disorientation while he uses colorful phrases and science fiction references to explain that he basically just punched a hole through space-time.

Sam is still stuck back at the fact that he’s recited an Old Norse pledge and can now apparently feel Gabriel’s magic. It’s just as warm as his Grace, but there’s a wild, almost earthy edge to it, like putting a hand next to static. It's different and almost distracts from the discomfort.

After the initial wave passes, Sam straightens up to get a good look around them. The rain is falling thick and heavy off of the dense foliage, but neither or Gabriel have a drop on them aside from where their shoes touch the ground. When he looks at Gabriel, the archangel is grinning proudly and glances purposefully upward. 

Sam follows the unspoken instructions and looks up. It takes a few minutes to process, namely because he doesn’t actually see much more than an impression made by raindrops sliding over what otherwise looks like thin air. And then his brain puts the pieces of the arched, vague shapes together. “Are those…?”

“Yup,” Gabriel answers, nonchalantly popping the ‘p,’ “’Wings’ is the word you’re looking for, Sammy.”

It’s… sort of amazing – enough that Sam let the use of the nickname go for now. And Gabriel, the little shit, knows it judging by the wide, proud grin on his face. Sam aborts lifting a hand up about halfway through while the questions start sinking in. They're on a job though, so he sets aside anything about the metaphysical nature of angel wings and settles on “This doesn’t hurt, does it?"

Gabriel chuckles. “Hey, my eyes are down here,” he teases, effectively drawing Sam’s attention back to his sly, suggestive smirk, “If I say they’re killing me, are you gonna carry me?”

Sam levels him with a flat look when they start moving at Gabriel’s lead. “You already played that card,” he points out, brows lifting in a challenge, “And you’re heavier than you look.” It’s surprisingly easy to fall into banter with Gabriel, and he has no real idea of why. Then again, the angel-turned-Trickster has an admittedly impressive quick wit, and he’s good at tossing out random insights among the jokes when he isn’t busy being an unrepentant ass.

Challenge _is_ something Sam craves in conversation, so he chalks it up to that because it’s easier than admitting that, despite all the apocalypse crap, he may actually sort of like the guy.

Gabriel pushes some of the underbrush out of the way as they follow a path down the waterway to their left. Apparently the wings are dual purpose because something keeps the path relatively clear, even at Sam’s height. “Ouch!” Gabriel counters, the grin on his face belaying his mock offense, “I’ll have you know there’s a _lot_ of angel to pack into these cells. Were you raised by wolves or something? Where’re your manners?”

For once, Sam’s brain decides to abandon a potential reminder of vesselhood. Instead, he shrugs as they trudge on ahead. “Worse, actually. I had Dean and Bobby,” he counters. And yeah, maybe there’s some pride in his tone, but he’s not telling Dean that much lest he get stuck with another day’s worth of being called ‘Samantha.’

Gabriel lifts his brows like he wasn’t actually expecting Sam to humor him. He looks pleased though, so that’s probably good. “Damn, kiddo. You and I should swap stories sometime. Believe it or not, Mikey made a hell of a mother hen once upon a time,” he laughs, nudging Sam’s side with his elbow, “Us middle kids have to stick together, y’know.”

Sam glances down thoughtfully at the archangel. “You aren’t the youngest?” he asks before he backtracks with “Of the original archangels, I mean.”

Gabriel smiles proudly, but Sam isn’t fooled. The spark of genuine humor just recoils from his eyes and the lines of his face. He looks more like the Trickster that Sam remembers, which is a bit surprising because it means he’s already learned to distinguish between Gabriel being himself and the carefree, merciless façade he sometimes wears. “I’m third oldest - just after Luci,” he answers without the usual joke or sarcastic comment attached to it.

For a minute, the air is pretty heavy with the implications of that. Even if he was never a huge fan of Raphael (which was completely mutual), Sam thinks he gets it. He’s failed as a brother as many times as he’s succeeded. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?” he asks, not unkindly, “The lore says Raphael was a powerful healer, and this ritual sounds like it needs something from each of you.” Frankly, from what they’d seen of the archangel, Sam had a hard time buying the ‘healer’ bit. Then again, given the difference in Michael he’s gotten from Lucifer’s memories compared to recently, he’s willing to give a little more room for time and interpretation.

This time, Gabriel doesn’t even bother with the big, flashy smiles or showy gestures. Sam gets the feeling that this side of him is something the hunter should probably consider a privilege to be shown. “Yeah,” he answers, eyes locked on the path ahead of them, “We’re powerful, Sam. If we spend a lot of time somewhere, we sort of… bleed off some of that power if we’re not careful, and I used to take Raph here a lot a _long_ time ago before we learned to watch that sort of shit.”

Sam frowns because he isn’t really sure how to respond to that. “You okay?” he finally settles on and immediately regrets it. Outside of Winchester circles, that’s probably a stupid question with an obvious answer.

So, naturally, he’s a little surprised when Gabriel ends up regaining a little bit of the genuine humor from before. “What? I’ve got a forest, access to all the candy a Trickster can eat, and my faithful Moose friend at my side. My day’s set.”

Sam lets it go because he didn’t want to talk about it when he’d been the one who’d lost a brother.

He’s also not really sure whether to be relieved or concerned that Gabriel has already figured out how to manipulate the Winchester code for avoiding emotional conversations to his advantage.

It’s quiet for a little while – as quiet as it gets with the sound of the jungle around them – before Gabriel starts again. “So. I got us as close as I could, but we’ve still got some walking to do. What sort of disasters have you yahoos been caught up in while I was temporarily out of commission?”

It’s an olive branch, so Sam takes a breath of clean, jungle air, and starts back at the beginning.

 

* * *

 

 

“I gotta tell you, Cas. I’m pretty sure Gabriel is just screwing with us now,” Dean announces as he and Castiel look at the town laid out in front of them. Considering that he can actually see the entire frigging place in a glance, he rests his case. There’s all of a post office, a restaurant, a crummy hotel, a gas station, and a pharmacy. Hell. There isn’t even a McDonalds, so he's not really sure why a god would chose this crummy little place as a temporary home turf. 

Castiel eyes squint in that way that means he’s casing the place out. “I… may be inclined to agree with you,” he replies, shaking his head, “I can’t sense anything out of the ordinary in the immediate area, but my range of perception is limited.”

Dean frowns but locks up the impala anyway.  He shrugs and walks around to Castiel with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Can’t hurt to look around,” he admits, “Figure out where he went at least.”

With the flimsy description Gabriel gave them (because apparently he didn’t hang out in the Underworld much for obvious reasons), the post office is a complete bust. The drug store is a no go on the basis that it’s a chain store, and Dean gets the vibe that the overworked cashier, who’s new to town, doesn’t really know the name of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who happens to roll in on occasion. So after a few hours of fruitless searching, Dean calls a temporary quits and leads Castiel into the restaurant for dinner.

The silence between the pair of them is verging on awkward after the waitress takes their order (more specially Dean’s order since Castiel only orders coffee) and heads to the kitchen. Dean sighs and runs his hands over his face. “Well, if you’ve got any bright ideas, I’m all ears. Cause all I’ve got left is knocking on doors.” 

They’d tried looking into housing records, but Castiel had been quick to point out that a god doesn’t exactly need to live on the grid. Based on Gabriel’s description of the guy, Dean’s willing to bet he wouldn’t have set up shop too close to humanity either. “I would suggest looking for weak points between this world and Hell,” Castiel suggests with a frown, “Charon wouldn’t likely stray far from immediate access to his domain.”

Dean holds back a wince. “Hell? Not Hades?”

Castiel frowns, sharp gaze inspecting Dean in that way that means it just clicked that it’s still a relatively sore subject. “Hell and Hades exist on the same plane of reality, connected by the river Styx. It’s… difficult to explain,” he replies, “There have been minor territorial disputes in the past.”

Dean shoots him an unimpressed look. “Uh…huh.” Somehow he gets the feeling that ‘minor’ is a _really_ frigging big understatement. “So how do we figure out if one of those spots is around here?”

“Carefully,” Castiel replies bluntly, “Crowley and Abaddon are likely warring for control of such points for their strategic value.” He pauses to thank the waitress as she drops off Dean’s dinner and Castiel’s coffee with an ‘enjoy, boys.’ He takes a sip, apparently not caring that it’s still hot enough to be unpleasant for a human. “I can sense them if I can get close enough.”

“Okay. So we drive around some – take a hike or two – and see what we turn up,” he suggests.

Castiel nods in agreement.

It’s comfortably quiet for a little while Dean eats and Castiel sips at his coffee. At least until Dean’s gaze lands unintentionally on Castiel’s shoulder. He forces his eyes up to meet the angel's, but it’s pretty obvious he’s already been caught looking. The hunter momentarily sets down his burger to frown, “Michael’s magic painkiller still working?”

Eyes somewhat distant as he looks down, Castiel nods, “Yes.” Blue eyes meet green, calm and assured. “I’m alright, Dean.”

The hunter bites back the ‘ _Yeah. Besides the fact that you’re burning out, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it_.’ It’s a thought that’s stuck with him through the past week of frustrating research and near dead ends. He’d been tense all week, knowing that the longer they spend playing around, the worse Castiel is going to get without an actual solution.

Apparently his thoughts read on his face because Castiel is frowning at him. “Michael and Gabriel are unsure of the exact nature of Metatron’s spell and are therefore unsure of what will become of my Grace,” he explains, watching Dean intently. It’s about the only thing that keeps Dean from cutting in there. “Whatever the case, when my siblings are restored, I intend to release the Grace I’ve stolen.”

It takes virtually seconds for Dean to process the gist of that: what Castiel could have to give up. Again. While he doesn’t like that it may be a necessity, he’s on board for keeping Castiel alive and well. “Okay,” he agrees, trying not to sound too hopeful that things will work out for once. That sort of thinking has an uncanny record of backfiring at the last minute. Just like all the times before, he's willing to fight tooth and nail to keep their family together because the universe won't magically do it for them. “I’m doing it right this time," he continues stubbornly, "You wanna stick with us? Alright. The Bunker’s your home, too, if you want it, Cas. No matter what’s going on with us, you’re family.”

Castiel frowns, brows furrowed. “Dean, Sam would have died if Gadreel had left much sooner than when he did,” he says, obviously having read between the lines of Dean’s comments, “And though it wasn’t your intent, you made a fair point; until this is resolved, anyone near me could become a target.”

With a dull frown, Dean leans back in his seat. “Cause Sam and me never had huge targets painted on our backs while you risked your feathery ass to follow us around,” he counters dryly. He’s about to continue when the door opens, and Castiel’s eyes narrow tellingly over Dean’s shoulder at whoever just walked in. The hunter shoots him a curious look, which manages to draw a fraction of Castiel’s attention back to Dean.

“That woman. She bares traces of magic,” Castiel answers, tilting his head as he watches, “But she appears to be human.”

Dean chances a discreet glance over his shoulder. There’s a girl, probably late teens – maybe early twenties –  chatting with the waitress at the counter. It’s pretty obvious they’re friendly, which isn’t saying much in such a small town. She’s dressed well for the woods with comfortable clothes, jeans with grass stains, and worn boots. If Dean had to make a bet, he’d say she probably lives further out from the town itself.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, drawing his eyes back to Castiel.

Blue eyes shift to green, tense and troubled. “I’m not sure,” the angel admits.

They’re in luck because the waitress excuses herself long enough to head back over to their table and pick up the plate Dean has finished off while the new girl waits at the counter. “Hey,” Dean starts, pointing to the girl, “You guys do take out?” He smiles his winning, friendly smile and tilts his head toward Castiel. “My friend and I were about to hit the trails tomorrow. Sort of hard to cook up a decent lunch in a hotel room and all.”

The waitress looks a little surprised, “We usually don’t, no. Krissy and her uncle are sort of a special case. Poor guy’s a shut in. Hasn’t come into town in years.”

A lifetime of practice makes it easy for Dean to cast his features into sympathy even while he has a hunch they’re getting somewhere. “Rough break for Krissy,” he agrees. The conversation goes straight back to formality when she offers to talk to the chef about a takeout order and Dean declines, claiming he doesn’t want to bother anyone. He nobly sacrifices a slice of pie to pay the bill and ushers Castiel quickly out to the impala before Krissy leaves with her order.

It’s only when they’re both in the car that Castiel chooses to comment. “You believe the girl is connected to Charon.”

Dean shrugs, starting the car as he watches the building, “You said it yourself: you’ve got no idea what she is. ‘S not like we’ve got any better leads.”

Castiel makes his own approximation of a shrug, more with a look than anything else. “So long as we don’t appear suspicious enough to alert the police,” he agrees, “Rescue would prove… difficult.”

Dean huffs out a laugh while Krissy walks out to a jeep, sets the bag aside, and back out of the lot. “You let me worry about that. You just keep an eye out for one of those portals to Hell,” he instructs as he shifts the impala into gear with a grin, “Besides, aren’t you the guy who’s always telling me to have a little faith?”

Much to the hunter’s enjoyment, the look he gets in return is hardly amused.

 

* * *

 

With Sam and Dean off on their own little adventures, the keys to the Bunker (and the collection of nice cars in the garage) apparently fall to Adam. Frankly, he’s not really that surprised since his brothers are usually pretty practical, and expecting someone bunker down indefinitely is just a bad idea. Even if there probably is enough random crap laying around to wait out the zombie apocalypse…

Which he seriously hopes isn’t actually a thing now that he thinks about it.

Regardless, they leave him with the run of the place, a new cell phone, a box full of enough identity and credit card fraud to get them a nice, long vacation in prison, and Dean’s instructions to call if Michael misbehaves. It’s the box of legal documents that really hits Adam's curiosity all of a few hours after the Winchesters head off. He glances in it, plucks out the driver’s license and a credit card, and shoves the rest of the box in his room to sort out later.

He ends up sitting at the table, staring dumbly at the fake surname on the stupid license for a while.

Objectively, he’s gotten used to the fact that he’s legally been dead for years now – that he can’t exactly run around with his old name and life without some serious fast-talking and an air-tight story he just doesn’t have. Hell. He isn’t even sure he _wants_ to because those memories are painful, and it probably isn’t healthy to try and live in the past like that.

Besides, it’s not like it’d be the same anyway. His mom is gone, and his friends would probably never shut up about whatever alibi he'd have to give them. Sighing, he gets up and heads to the kitchen to grab some lunch before he heads off to figure out where Michael has run off to this time.

And… apparently there’s a dude in the kitchen. Which is weird on more levels than one because Adam’s pretty sure nothing – angel, demon, or otherwise – should be able to just randomly pop into the Bunker after Michael’s additions to the wards. He takes a step backward toward the devil’s trap under the nearby rug because his other plan involves a lot of running toward the nearest angel blade and relies _way_ too much on sheer dumb luck. 

For a second, all he can think is ‘ _Well done, Milligan. Your brothers trust you with the keys to the castle, and you manage all of a couple hours before you screw it up_.’

“Hm,” the scruffy guy hums thoughtfully as he looks Adam over, “Somehow I thought you’d wear more plaid.”

“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” Adam demands because, apparently like Dean, he can’t keep his mouth shut when obvious danger is feet away. He’s pretty sure there’s an angel blade in Sam’s room. What good that’s going to do him… he’s not really that sure of.

Mystery Guy lifts his brows expectantly and takes a few leisurely steps closer while Adam decides to hold his ground.  No point in running off just yet if he thinks he’s just going to get caught. Not to mention, he feels the heat of Michael’s Grace in his chest, and he seriously doesn’t want to test out what’ll happen if he tries to mind whammy somebody else. “Who I am really isn’t that important to you right now,” Mystery Guy tells him, “What I want on the other hand… That’s a much better question.”

Adam isn’t stupid. The longer he stalls, the better chance he’ll get a break to run off for a weapon or Michael will figure out what’s going on and be courteous enough to break up the party. “A question you’re gonna answer, right? Or do I have to solve a riddle first?” he prompts, keeping his fingers crossed for some Saturday morning cartoon villain monologue. 

The guy chuckles, hearty and amused. “I think I see why Michael keeps you around,” he tilts his head and taps his chin, looking more like a stage actor miming deep thought, “Though I never really saw him as a guy who could appreciate a good sense of humor…” He shakes his head, taking one last step to put him within a couple of feet from Adam.

This is quickly going from bad to worse because nobody but their team, Lucifer, and Crowley are supposed to know that Michael is out of the Cage. And since Adam is pretty sure he’s met most, if not all, of Sam and Dean’s allies… “You’re Metatron.”

“So they _can_ be taught,” he laughs. Granted, he sobers up quickly after that to just look generally smug. There’s a dangerous edge to his expression though – one that reminds Adam that this guy isn’t even close to what he appears to be. “You know, I’m a little confused. Smart little human like you? You should know people who stick around the Winchesters have a bad habbit of paying the price for all their ‘miraculous’ escapades. Of all people, you should know that song and dance. So I have to wonder why you’re still here…”

On reflex, Adam tenses and scowls, “Anyone ever tell you that you need to work on your ‘come to the dark side’ speeches.” He can’t think of another reason why he’s still talking and not splattered all over the walls – as unpleasant as that sounds.

Metatron smiles like a shark that’s watching a minnow think it’s accomplished something. “I’m just telling you what you already know,” he replies, features shifting into something more sympathetic. Adam doesn’t buy it, even if it does look pretty damn genuine. “I feel for you. I really do,” he continues with a shrug, “You didn’t want this life. You wouldn’t even be here if Michael’s people hadn’t dragged you out of a peaceful grave.”

“Look, buddy, you’re really starting to—“

“I can give you your life back.”

Rational thought sputters to a complete halt for all of a minute and a half. “ _What?_ ” the blonde demands, daring not to breathe.

With a casualness that _really_  pisses Adam off, Metatron smirks. “What? You think Castiel could bring someone back from the dead, but I can’t?” he counters, “I hope you’ll forgive the cliché, but I really can make all of your problems go away – like you weren’t even dead in the first place.”

Adam swallows past the lump in his throat at memories he’d rather not think about. “That kind of crap isn’t ever free,” he points out, hating that his tone isn’t as stern and badass as he was hoping for. He needs to figure out how the hell Dean manages to do that under pressure. Which is actually a bad idea because he refuses to stroke Dean's ego like that. 

Metatron looks like the cat that ate the canary. “I’ll give you mommy dearest, your old place, and I'll even raise you college,” he replies, “And all you have to do is go down the hall and salt and burn something for me.”

For just a minute, it’s almost tempting in how easy it would be. Sam and Dean probably wouldn't even know. There was a time he's pretty sure he would have done it out of spite, thinking they deserved it for leaving him in Hell. But then he thinks about this new, weirdass little family he’s somehow gotten drawn into, and it make that last realization flood him with shame. That’s all it takes for him to know that, whatever the consequences, he’s not screwing them over for something he knows he can’t really get back.

From the way Metatron’s smug look falls into a flash of irritation, quickly followed by mock disappointment, Adam’s guessing he’s got a front row seat to everything going on in the human’s head. And _crap_ , that’s not a look that means good things for his continued existence. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you; I’m not the villain here,” Metatron assures him with a patronizing tone like he’s coaxing a spooked animal, “I’d hoped to avoid this messy business, but I need to make a point to Michael. You understand.”

There’s no real time to register the smooth gesture of Metatron’s hand before pain erupts like a war of fire and ice across Adam’s nerves. He barely registers his knees hitting the ground with a breathless gasp in the whiteout. For a second, he can _feel_ the ghouls attacking again, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. It’s only when he manages to get a hold of himself enough to force breath in and out of his lungs that a whole new wave of vertigo hits, where everything decides to switch from being blindingly bright and ear-shatteringly loud to a too-dull red-wash that’s still too loud.

And then it’s like being dunked under water, cool and refreshing against the ache and information overload. _‘Easy,’_ he thinks he hears, _‘Come on. Don’t let him win, damn it.’_ He has no idea if it’s real or just a figment of his imagination, but he clings to it anyway and somehow manages to find he instinct to struggle back against whatever the hell is going on. He hears Metatron make some kind of angry noise, but he's too busy sighing in relief as having oxygen in his lungs actually seems to mean something again.

Well… mean something aside from the fact that Michael barking out words is making his headache worse. Which is weird because firstly, Adam was sure Michael wasn’t there a second ago, and secondly, he doesn’t really do the ‘raised voices’ thing unless Lucifer is involved. And Adam  _really_ hopes Lucifer isn't involved. There are only so many 'bad-to-worse' surprises he can take in one day.

He comes around just in time to hear Metatron’s smug voice, “...thought you could use a friendly reminder.”

“I’m going to _end_ you,” Michael swears, voice low and rough in a way Adam has never heard from this vessel. If he wasn't busy trying to pull himself together again, he'd have time to register that it really shouldn't be that interesting. 

There’s a hand on Adam’s shoulder. Judging by the close distance to Michael’s voice, he’s pretty sure the archangel is couched between Adam and Metatron. It’s strangely helpful for getting his head back on straight.

Metatron huffs like he’s bored, but there's a distinct edge of irritation in his tone, “Funny. Lucifer said the same thing just the other day…”

The sound of glass shattering explodes around them. Adam has just enough sense of mind to force himself to roll onto his side and cover his face. The hand at his shoulder is gone in an instant, replaced with the sounds of shuffling boots and a struggle. It lasts only a few seconds until there’s nothing but the shuffling of shoes over broken glass.

It’s fear for Michael that drives Adam to open his eyes and shift around to try and figure out what just happened. By the time he manages it, Michael is crouching next to him again, expression draw with barely controlled rage and concern. “How do you feel?” he asks gravely.

Adam gets the feeling it isn’t just a courtesy question. “Hungover,” he grunts out, “But okay.”

Michael lets out a breath of air and briefly shuts his eyes, but the relief is temporary at best. He lifts a hand but hesitates part of the way to Adam’s forehead with a “May I?”

Adam manages a nod. He feels Grace working away to sooth the aches and tries to let himself relax. “Guessing he took off,” he mutters, letting his eyes close again while he tries calm back down from another near death experience and the memories it’s stirred up, "Kudos."

“He underestimated us,” Michael comments, but it sounds half-hearted at best. For a guy who’s usually so strong in his convictions, it’s pretty easy to tell the difference.

Adam cracks his eyes open. Michael looks like he’s wound tight enough to snap like a bomb going off. Which is bad news because a few seconds of the guy's unrestrained anger has effectively made a warzone out of the kitchen. Adam sighs and pushes himself up, careful of where he puts his hands to avoid the glass. About halfway up, Michael’s hands are back on his shoulder and back, helping him up. Turns out, even with Michael’s mojo, Adam is still isn’t exactly running at peak efficiency.  

He shakes his head, trying to clear out some of the dots in front of his eyes with marginal success, “’The hell did he try to pull?”

Michael’s unhappy expression shifts to something dark, “He was trying to tear my Grace from you. I suspect he intended to set you loose on me or your brothers. Thankfully, you fought back, and he failed.” He reaches up, completely unashamed, as he sets a hand on Adam’s jaw and gently coaxes him to turn his head to the side like he’s looking for something. Adam reminds himself that the angel probably has no idea how intimate that sort of thing usually is with humans because now really isn’t the time. He gets his confirmation when Michael ends up healing a stupidly insignificant scratch Adam didn’t even notice at his cheek. “I lost control,” Michael admits, some of his anger shifting inward, “I’m sorry.”

Adam scowls. “Yeah. Cause you really hear me complaining about a rescue,” he says dully. It takes all of ten to fifteen seconds to realize that Michael isn’t buying it. “Look,” he starts again, “Michael, no offense, but sometimes it’s a good thing. I’m pretty sure you losing it is what just saved our asses.”

“Not entirely,” Michael corrects, “Something interfered with Metatron’s attack on you. A spirit, I believe. That was what drew me here – not Metatron. Somehow he’s devised a way to hide himself from me.”

Adam backtracks through the run of information a couple of times while they get back up on their feet. It takes a couple minutes to connect that, Metatron’s offer, and something he dug up in one of Sam’s books. “He wanted me to salt and burn something here in the Bunker,” Adam relays, “Think it’s our friendly ghost?”

Michael narrows his eyes, no doubt prying that new piece of information apart in his head already. “If Metatron is capable of infiltrating the Bunker, why bother taking the risk of asking you to deal with a the ghost for him?”

Adam reads that as Michael voicing his thoughts because he has no idea. He sighs as he looks around at the damage. “Broom or mojo?” he asks. Michael blinks and takes in the mess like he’s completely forgotten about it. That’s probably not that far from the truth though. He flicks a wrist absently. Like a switch being turned, the kitchen is back to normal in the span of a blink.

That’s still a little freaky and no small part awesome.

With the suddenly glass-free kitchen, Adam leans his back against the counter and brushes his hands over his face, “Maybe he couldn’t? You guys have any rules about ghosts?”

Michael shakes his head. “More so general guidelines than rules,” he answers, eyes distant and uncharacteristically unfocused with the whole crisis going on.

Adam sighs and moves away from the counter to the center of the room where Michael stands. It’s most telling that Michael lets him get within a foot of him without tracking his movements at all so soon after a threat. With a frown, Adam watches him expectantly, “You alright?” He’s pretty sure the scuffle had ended as mostly a draw, but his vantage point had admittedly sucked.

Green eyes shift back into focus. “I’m unharmed,” Michael assures him mechanically. When he catches the disapproving look Adam shoots him, he frowns back stubbornly. The stare down lasts at least a minute before Michael’s already worn patience snaps, and he visibly caves in the subtlest of ways. He looks at the walls, like there’s an answer there when he finally speaks. “He mentioned speaking with my brother.”

It takes a lot longer than it should for Adam to get it considering they’ve shared head space for a couple of centuries in Hell time. “You’re worried.” It should be a whole lot more shocking than it is, but again… shared head space and all.

“I am uneasy,” Michael corrects a little too quickly, “Lucifer’s death threats are hardly something to be taken lightly.”

And yet Metatron had apparently been well enough to waltz casually into the lair of two archangels, their miraculously resilient younger brother, and a pair of possibly the best equipped humans on the planet to deal with him. Sure, Adam _really_ isn’t a big ‘sympathy for the devil’ guy, but he doesn’t like the implication there. Michael is clammed up in thought again, green eyes back to scanning the room. For once, it’s really not that hard to spot the conflict brewing internally in the lines of his face and shoulders.

“You know it’s not bad, right?” Adam tries. When he gets a blank, uncomprehending look, he tacks on “To be worried. ‘Uneasy.’ Whatever." 

For a second, Adam is all but sure that he’s screwed up by bringing it up. Then Michael takes a deep breath and seems to force himself to unwind. What actually surprises Adam is his next admission. “For a very long time, it was.” He finally stops inspecting the walls and meets Adam’s gaze. “It would mean that I still cared.”

Which would make it a whole hell of a lot harder to kill the guy in the end like he was supposed to. 

There’s something fragile and wary between them – like Michael is just waiting to be condemned for the implications.He's obviously doing a pretty good job of that in his own head already. It makes Adam as nervous as weirdly excited at the show of trust. He’s pretty sure a verbal screw up here risks some of the progress they’ve made, so he gives the admission the respect he thinks it deserves and tries to forget that they’re talking about the same being - the literal devil - that would be all too happy to wipe humanity off the planet. “Sam and Dean left me in Hell,” he points out, trying to be as bland about as possible enough though it still simultaneously stings and pisses him off, “I just got an offer to screw them over – get my life back – and I didn’t.”

The kitchen is completely quiet. Adam sees the moment something clicks in Michael’s eyes, but he doesn’t have enough time to figure out what it is before the angel is back to inspecting the room. Judging by the surprising lack of tension, Adam guesses that he did alright. Granted, just a few seconds later, Michael’s eyes zero in on something, and he takes long strides over to pull open one of the cabinets and shove aside the boxes of food inside.

Adam moves closer out of curiosity. Inside, etched into the varnish, there’s a messy sigil. “…Was that behind the Count Chocula?” he asks dumbly, “How did…?”

With a wave of Michael’s hand, the thing vanishes back into smooth wood. “That should have taken months to etch at a distance around the wards,” he states with a deep frown that he turns toward Adam, "It seems it took Metatron a week."

“What does that mean?” Adam asks even though he has a pretty good feeling that it isn’t anything good.

“We need to have a word with this spirit, but I doubt it will be capable of manifesting again for several days now,” Michael tells him before there’s a weird, uncharacteristic moment of hesitation. He really shouldn't be able to look that grim and ominous with Count Chocula grinning the the peripheral of Adam's vision. “Adam, I must ask a favor from you.”

Adam gets the feeling he _really_ isn’t going to like this.

 

* * *

 

For a minute, all Gabriel can do is gape because there’s physically no other option to fully express the wide range of wonderment at this latest piece of information. It takes a minute for the first slip in control to fall into a snicker, but that quickly evolves into full out laughter so bad that he actually has to stop walking for a minute or risk drenching them both in all the water that’s collected on fractionally-corporeal wings.

Sam waits patiently, but he’s also not bothering to hide the hint of amusement while he watches. Poor guy probably needs to unwind as much as Michael as far as Gabriel is concerned. He figures it’s been a while since the hunter had a chance to just enjoy a walk and a laugh with a maybe-friend-slash-ally without reminders of the threat a Host of fallen angels poses.

But none of that can really compare to what he’s just heard.

“You’re telling me that the Leviathan alpha – the original King of General Dickishness – actually posed as a guy named _Dick_?” he laughs, “ _Please_ tell me Dean-o, at least, didn’t waste that golden change of a lifetime!”

“Believe it or not, we were more focused on not getting arrested with the serial killer rap sheet then making dick jokes,” Sam points out. There’s just a hint of old anger in his features, which is fairly surprising, all things considered, in that he’s still more amused by Gabriel’s reaction than angry about the old situation. Gabriel, for one, would be pretty pissed if somebody drug his reputation through the mud. Even Leviathan. _Especially_ Leviathan.

He’s just sort of biased like that and figures he can fix it out of spite when they get back if it’s still a problem.

That doesn’t stop him from putting on a show of pouting because this conversation is a whole hell of a lot better than sensing the old edges of Grace he and Raphael left behind eons ago. “But Sam!” he argues, picking up the pace again as he makes vague gestures of disbelief with his arms, “Gratuitous dick jokes! At Creation’s ultimate jackass! How could you _possibly_ resist? It’s basically a civic duty at that level of cosmic irony.”

Sam lifts his brows patiently, “Pretty easily, actually.”

Gabriel sighs wistfully and shakes his head. “See? This right here? This is why you guys need me,” he decides. Because, seriously, laughter is about the only way to deal with sort of crap they get into, in Gabriel’s not-so-humble opinion. He knows ‘cause he’s sort of a veteran of ‘screwed up, comic scale disasters with no clear-cut answers.’

“Not the phenomenal cosmic powers?” Sam counters with a lazy, disbelieving half smile.

Gabriel rolls his eyes because that little comment is too obvious to even indulge as a joke. “Uh… huh. You’re the frigging Winchesters, Sam. I’m pretty sure you two could take on Creation and win. Mikey, Cassie, and me? We’re just here to make sure you do it style. Well… I am, anyway. Mikey and Cassie wouldn’t know style if it bit ‘em in the asses.”

Sam frowns, which was _totally_ not the point of that little spiel. In retrospect, Gabriel probably should have seen it coming since Sam isn’t so good with the taking compliments thing. “We didn’t get this far by ourselves,” Sam reminds him grimly.

And, with that, Gabriel puts on the breaks because he’s just not having it. Sam takes half a step too far and ends up getting a few seconds of rainfall before he readjusts and turns to Gabriel, totally surprised by the sudden stop. The archangel takes that time to perfect his most stubborn look (because nothing less will do to get through the impossibly thick skull of this particular Winchester) and crosses his arms defiantly. “Okay. You had help, but who actually stood up to Luci directly, huh?” he demands, ignoring the sudden itch of the only scar his vessel carries.

Stupid psychology.

“Me, Cas, Dean, Bobby, you, and about five gods,” Sam lists, frowning back at him just as stubbornly, "A lot more than just me."

Gabriel represses a wince at the reminder of the hotel disaster because they aren’t talking about his latent issues right now. And hot damn. It’s like it’s a defensive reflex to argue with good things and just accept the bad. “Okay, great. Yay team,” he shoots back dryly, adding a half-assed little wave of his hands for emphasis of his current level of ‘not happy’, “Who actually _won_ , Sam?” Sam looks like he’s about to open his mouth and argue again. “ _You_ did,” Gabriel cuts in sternly. Granted, when it dawns on him that he’s gone full out Messenger, he huffs a disappointed sigh and tries to shake himself out of it.

And _maybe_ he sort of doesn’t want to admit that this conversation is quickly going down roads he hates traveling. For Sam, he guesses he can man up and do it anyway. It’s not like it’d be the first time, and the fallout from this conversation is a _lot_ less likely to end up with a terminal case of dead. “I don’t know where you missed the part where Lucifer is the king of mind games,” he continues, “But he is. You had him _in your frigging_ _noggin_ and somehow beat him back. So man up, thank you for saving the world and sparing my idiot brothers, and take the damn compliment already because I don’t just give those out.”

For a minute, Gabriel is sort of worried that he’s going to have to return Sam to Dean and Adam with an “I’m sorry I sort of broke your brother” card. Which he would have to make because they don’t sell that sort of shit at Hallmark. Even if they really should. _That_ means he’s going to have to come up with some witty pun about how Sam is just staring blankly at him, and that won’t be fun because Gabriel has the sneaking suspicion that the little uneasy feeling crawling up his stomach is guilt since archangels and Tricksters really do the whole indigestion shtick.

So when Sam finally utters an awkward as hell “I uh… You’re welcome. I think” Gabriel is almost ready to snap up a celebratory hot fudge Sunday in relief.

In all seriousness, though, he sees that there’s still heavy self-doubt since Sam isn’t exactly trying to hide it, but he gets the feeling some progress has been made, and that’s really all he can ask for. So he lets out a sigh, nods approvingly, and starts on down the path again. “I’ll teach you yet, young grasshopper,” he declares with a smile that’s small but feels a lot more genuine than it really has any right to, “Seriously though, Sam. You guys got dealt a shitty hand, and you played it instead of just taking the easy ‘yes’ out. That’s gotta mean something." Before Sam can argue again, Gabriel lightens it up with a proud declaration of "I should know; I’m the freakin’ archangel Gabriel.”

That one, at least, seems to get a tiny smile from Sam. Baby steps, Gabriel figures. The fact that it’s only the second time in a couple millennia that he’s said that aloud… Well, it’s probably progress for him, too.

It takes another fifteen minutes of oddly companionable silence before they reach the lush spot, dense of the Grace of two archangels. Gabriel stops and tries hard to play whack-a-mole with the memories the place brings back with marginal success. He’s pretty sure it shows on his face because Sam is looking mildly uncomfortable, like he wants to help but doesn’t exactly know how.

Knowing that he’s somehow wormed his way into the Winchester’s good graces is strangely helpful enough.

With a snap, Gabriel conjures up a glass vial etched with Enochian symbols on the bottom and a colorful beach towel on the ground. Without ceremony, he takes a seat and smirks up at Sam. “You want a book while you stand guard?” he offers, “Milkshake? Wait. No. You strike me as more of fruit smoothie guy.”

Sam shoot him an expectant look, which Gabriel takes to mean ‘ _No, Gabriel. Your phenomenal cosmic powers are amazing, and you are undeniably sexy, but I’m way too paranoid to be distracted by the undoubtedly amazing fruit smoothie you’ve graciously offered to conjure up for me_.’ Or something like that. Maybe he’s just a _wee_ bit biased toward taking minor liberties in his translations.

Regardless, he sobers up and shrugs. “Suit yourself. This is gonna take a little bit though,” he warns. When he gets no argument, he shuts his eyes and starts trying to relax and spread his Grace out across the area. It takes a minute, but there’s movement next to him. The leaf litter shifts just enough to tell Gabriel that Sam has taken a seat next to him, possibly to avoid getting splashed with the rain water still dripping down from the canopy.

Gabriel cracks an eye open to glance at the hunter with a sly smirk, “Binoculars? You can bird watch like a good, devout follower of PBS documentaries.”

Sam gives him what Dean apparently calls bitch face number five: ‘ _You aren’t nearly as cute/funny/witty as you think you are_.’ “I’ll pass, thanks,” he replies.

“Alright. Fine. Getting to work,” Gabriel sighs, shutting his eye again. It’s quiet again with just the sounds of animals and the shifting of leaves. It's just too good of an opportunity to waste. “Maybe _I_ want a milkshake. They _do_ bring all the boys to the yard…”

“ _Gabriel_.”

“Okay, okay. I got the message loud and clear; I’m not allowed to bring the boys to the yard. No need to get all possessive, Sammich.” Gabriel waits a second before adding on “Although it is pretty good look on you…”

The put-upon sigh that draws out is totally worth the slight delay.

 

* * *

In retrospect, things are going way too smoothly for something to not screw up in the immediate future. Castiel has only just announced that he’s sensing one of those freakyass portals to Hell and possibly Charon himself, they’ve stayed far enough back that ‘Krissy’ doesn’t have a clue they’re tailing her, and the impala is handling nicely on the back roads. It starts when Castiel’s eyes narrow suspiciously. He sits a little straighter in his seat, which tells Dean whatever he’s about to hear probably isn’t going to be good. “The woman is gone,” he announces, “Something is clouding my senses.”

Dean is used to working with this sort of insanity so he slows down. “Alright, Yoda. So they’re probably onto us,” Dean guesses, “Just get me to the last place you sensed her.”

Castiel nods and starts with the directions.

The cabin is a pretty nice one as far as creepy ass cabins in the middle of the woods go. It’s two stories, looks pretty sturdy, and even has a stupid garden out back. It’s… not exactly what Dean was expecting from a Greek god from the Underworld. “Told you this was gonna be lame,” he says with a frown, "Look at this place. It looks like a cover for Southern Living." 

Which is naturally about the time Castiel has to shove them both off to the side before Dean even has the chance to register that the tiny tree that had been directly behind him seconds ago has sort of exploded into tinny, splintery pieces.

“Stop wobbling, you thrice-damned winged bastard,” a gruff voice from the porch grumbles. There’s a faint accent in there, which pretty much confirms who this guy is.

“I think he means you, Cas,” Dean points out dumbly as he gets a good look at Charon. The guy isn’t even that tall – probably somewhere between Gabriel and Castiel – but he’s got one hell of a scruffy beard. He’s about average in built for a guy who looks to be pushing fifty. From the way he’s moving around, Dean would almost guess he was drunk… if Greek gods can actually do that.

He’s kind of hoping so since the guy can apparently blow shit up with a thought. Then again, apparently he’d been aiming for Castiel a few seconds ago from the sound of it, so that's probably not so good for them.

“We come as emissaries of Loki,” Castiel announces, “We wish to broker a trade.”

Charon scoffs, clearly not too happy about that, but at least he isn’t attacking again just yet. “Everyone always wants something,” he says before he narrows his eyes and suddenly looks suspiciously sober, “Don’t think I don’t know that Loki plays both teams; I’m anti-social – not stupid.”

And possibly hilariously accurate with unintentional innuendo, Dean adds in his mind. “You’re awfully chatty for a guy who wants to kill us,” he points out. If there’s anything he hates more than monsters, it’s trying to figure out if they’re going for the throat or just talk big.

“You have to be a Winchester,” Charon decides, “No other human would be dumb enough to walk up to my front door with an angel.” He moves into what Dean hopes is a less aggressive posture and lifts a brow imperiously. “So what does the great Tickster want this time?”

“An angelic dagger,” Castiel replies, “It was traded to you for the passage of a human into Hades seventy years ago.”

Charon holds out a hand. Between blinks, there’s a curved, gold hilted dagger in his hand. It's a wicked-looking thing with Enochian sigils carved deep into the hilt and blade. “You’re in luck,” Charon tells them, "I assumed one of you would eventually come crawling to me for this."

Dean frowns because that’s way too easy. “What’s the catch?”

The grin he gets tells him everything he needs to know. “I want you to take care of a little business for me. Then this is yours." 

Looks like they aren’t making it home for breakfast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that rolls us through chapter 5. This one feels to me more like a two-parter, and I was originally hoping to get out the second part soon, but I’m not sure how that’ll go. I may be a little slow until I can get moved into the new place, so I apologize for that. I’ll see if I can’t do updates on Tumblr or something on the progress of the next chapter. 
> 
> And again, guys, thank you so much for supporting this. It's made a lot of the stress seem a lot lighter, so I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so much to everyone following this story and for being patient with me. The move is done, but getting the internet in has been an absolute nightmare for no apparent reason. I also got some bad news about my dog, so I apologize for this chapter being a few days later than I anticipated. 
> 
> Again, though, I can't say it enough: you're all very awesome, and I appreciate all the support and following! It's fantastic, and I never expected anything like it!
> 
> Now, as usual, no beta reader, so please forgive my inevitable typos. Also, I promise to reply to all of the lovely comments tomorrow. I'm sort of sneaking off of my cousin's internet to post this because I didn't want to make you guys wait any longer! I hope that you enjoy!

In retrospect, Sam probably should have taken Gabriel up on his offer for the book. Knowing Gabriel, it probably would have been a collection of pornographic limericks or something equally absurd, but at least it’d pass the time a little faster.

It’s been a long while, and nothing has changed since Gabriel went unnaturally still in the way only angels are really capable of. It’s… honestly mildly unnerving to see that look on the normally animated Trickster. Gabriel is so good at making himself blend in with humanity that seeing him pull out the stops and go full angel—for lack of a less Dean-inspired word choice—is startling.

But Sam thinks that’s sort of the thing with Gabriel: there’re so many layers and facets to his being that he doesn’t fit in neat little boxes. He thrives off of being unpredictable and does it with the sort of grace and confidence that a lot of people wish they could apply to normality.

So once time wears down the awkward feeling of watching someone who is clearly checked out, Sam chances a look at the archangel while he works. His features are completely slack, but there’s a hunch in his shoulders that makes his posture look at least sort of normal despite the fact that he isn’t bothering to breathe. At least he’s thought ahead and shut his eyes instead of peering out, unblinking at the world around him like Michael occasionally does when he’s lost in his own head (which seems to be a common thing for the eldest of the Host).

It makes Sam wonder just how long Gabriel has had this particular vessel that he seems so comfortable in his own skin. A part of Sam wonders if he looks just as comfortable in his true form despite his self-imposed exile from Heaven. He represses a grimace as the stray thought conjures up barely-comprehensible memories of too many eyes and battles fought with talons and wings like galaxies condensed into blades.

It’s strange to think he’s seen more of Michael’s true face than Gabriel’s, but he dismisses the thought pretty quickly. The form doesn’t really matter—not beyond sheer curiosity—because he knows Gabriel a hell of a lot better than Michael. And maybe it’s because, as much as pieces of Sam’s life were built to mirror Lucifer’s, he _gets_ Gabriel, as stupid and cliché as that sounds.

The archangel ran off to join the pagans; Sam left for Stanford. Both them have tried to fix mistakes and made them worse in the process. Sam isn’t blind enough to not know _exactly_ what the point of the Mystery Spot disaster was in retrospect, and it wasn’t mindless cruelty just for kicks even if he thinks it _was_ cruel. And despite all of the shitty situations they’ve been through—the breaches of trust and blood spilt—they still love their brothers and give a damn about humanity.

…Which makes the hunter think about the recent disaster with Gadreel and how, between Adam, Michael, and Gabriel, he and Dean haven’t really had time to sit down and make peace in their own way.

“If you pop a vessel thinking over there, I can’t heal it ‘til we get back—just FYI.”

Sam blinks. Gabriel’s voice is soft and calm, but the underscore of amusement isn’t lost in it. Sam scowls at him, “I thought you were busy.”

Without bothering to open his eyes, Gabriel taps the thin vial in his hands. It glows with a warm, pale blue that the hunter recognizes as angelic Grace. There’re only a couple threads, but they swirl in lazy, hypnotic motions and occasionally seem to almost spark against the glass when they’re near Gabriel’s fingers. “What? You thought I was taking a nap instead?” he teases, “And before you ask, no, I’m not reading your thought bubbles like a cheap cartoon; I just figure that big brain of yours doesn’t ever actually shut off.”

And... true to form, Sam blurts out, “Is that…?”

Amber eyes crack open, ringed in a circle of gold. If Gabriel is conscious of it, he doesn’t mention it. “Yeah. Mission accomplished—achievement unlocked.” Sam sees the loss lingering under his expression but knows better than to bring it up directly. A slight frown edges onto Gabriel’s expression, but he doesn’t exactly give in—seems to pick himself purposefully up out of it with the practice of ages. He corks the bottle and slips it into his pocket with the reverence of a precious heirloom. 

Sam guesses that it sort of is.

“I never thanked you,” he says abruptly. He thinks it’s a pretty decent olive branch to give back to Gabriel for earlier. Granted, he gets an expectantly cocked eyebrow and a clear request for an explanation in return. So Sam elaborates, “For the tip about the rings. Taking a chance on us. The Grace. Take your pick.”

There’s something almost intoxicating about being the sole focus of Gabriel’s attention. It’s different than Castiel’s quiet intensity or the air of command and analysis that Michael seems to be completely unconscious of. It feels like being let in on a secret no one else knows.

Gabriel actually looks surprised, and Sam takes no small sense of pride in that. Granted, it quickly falls into something softer under the edges of genuinely smug pleasure. “Well, as long as we’re talking gratitude here…” he teases, leaning back casually as he eyes Sam. His posture is relaxed and open in a way it hadn’t been a few minutes ago. “You could take me to dinner.”

Sam blinks because he’s not really used to the playful flirting thing from people who _really_ know him—have seen him at his absolute lowest. It’s… kind of exciting though. Reminds him of a time when things were easier, so he decides to indulge it because it’s harmless. “You’re kidding right?” he replies, “I saved your ass a week and half ago.”

Gabriel lifts his brows skeptically like he hadn’t noticed the slight pause in conversation. “Oh, if we’re being _technical_ about it, you, Cassie, and Junior saved my very attractive ass. That’s a third of a favor back at ya, kiddo, which is at least ice cream for me. I’ll even go Dutch ‘cause I’m just classy like that.”

Sam makes an incredulous noise, but his lips twitch despite the fact he’s trying not to smile. Instead, he levels the archangel with a classic bitch face. “You can’t split favors into fractions, Gabriel,” he points out, “And we’ve been feeding you all week. By that logic, you owe us.”

Apparently that’s seen as a challenge because Gabriel’s grin stretches wide and sly. “It’s not calling in a favor if you might have a little fun, too,” he counters fearlessly and raises the bet with, “I’m not blind, Sammy. Crawford Hall? That ring any bells?”

“Don’t call me that,” Sam counters automatically.

Okay. So, it probably says something that Sam doesn’t even have to think to figure out exactly what Gabriel is alluding to. Yeah, maybe it was just harmless, subtle flirting, but the familiar comfort of a campus—of the reminders of _normality_ —had caught up, especially with he and Dean at each other’s throats again. Granted, that was also before he’d known that the funny, laid-back janitor was the Trickster _and_ a missing archangel. “I thought you were a janitor!”

Gabriel laughs, carefree and genuine. “Seriously? That’s your argument?” he teases. He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender when he sees Sam’s disapproving frown, but the smile is still there. “Alright. Okay,” he says smugly, “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll drop it. For reals. Scout’s honor.”

Sam’s been a hunter long enough to see an out when he’s given one. It’d be easy to lie, and he doesn’t even think Gabriel would call him on it. It would mean he wouldn’t need to face the loss and old anger from the Mystery Spot and the hurt from TV land. Wouldn’t have to reconcile that with the guy that’s been splitting dinner duty with Dean, pulling Sam away from his research before he gets too lost in the words, and somehow manages to motivate them all with a smile and a joke. Wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that a celestial entity, who isn’t human at all, is apparently interested in…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

There’s a terrifying thrill down his spine, and it reminds him for an uncomfortable second of the moment Jess had walked up to him after Freshman English Comp and with a smile and an offer to catch a movie to unwind from the stress of a term paper.

The “okay” slips out before he can think of all the reasons that it’s a _really_ bad idea to encourage this. Instead of the knee-jerk reaction to immediately retract his agreement, he adds on, “But ice cream isn’t a meal.”

Gabriel looks pleased and distinctly smug. Sam is wondering just what he’s gotten himself into when the angel’s posture straightens up, and his eyes slide off to the left. The easy mood vanishes as both of them slip into wary alertness. “Company?”

“And not the friendly kind,” Gabriel warns, grabbing Sam’s wrist, “Hold on tight. Might get a _little_ bumpy this time.”

That’s about all the warning Sam has before it feels like his consciousness gets ripped out of his body and stung through a too-small space before all of him violently collides back together again.

This time he doesn’t have the luxury of easing through the vertigo because Gabriel’s weight is suddenly half slumped against his side. He catches Gabriel mostly on instinct while the archangel wobbles slightly. A hand like steel clamps down on his arm but not enough to hurt. It takes a few minutes to really take stock of everything without the threat of dumping them both onto the ground.

It’s still raining, but it’s pretty obvious they aren’t in the jungle anymore—aren’t anywhere close. The difference is that the wings are apparently put away because they’re both soaked by the time they stumble to the nearest bus stop awning. “ _Wow_ ,” Gabriel breathes, “Okay. Cassie was right. That _sucked_.”

“So did the first time,” Sam points out, “You okay?”

Gabriel nods. “Took more outta me than I thought it would,” he admits. He gets his footing a few seconds later, but he doesn’t actually let go of Sam’s arm yet—just loosens his grip. He whistles as he looks around, presumably finding more than just a non-descript, abandoned sidewalk and storefront not that far off. “So… Looks like we may be doing dinner sooner than I thought,” he admits, “I need calories. Stat, Nurse Winchester.”

Sam sighs, “Where are we?”

“Well, Toto, it’s not exactly Kansas,” Gabriel tells him, tone mater-of-fact and dry.

Sam sighs and shakes his head because he’s not totally convinced this wasn’t part of the plan in the first place. “I’ll call Adam,” he decides, digging out his cell phone so he can turn off the airplane mode, “Check that map over there for a place to wait.”

It’s mid-ring that a _snap_ precedes being suddenly warm and dry.

Alright, so maybe there are some serous perks to running around with a pagan archangel.

 

* * *

 

As far as ominous favors go, this one is nowhere near the ‘summoning the devil for Sunday brunch’ Adam had been half-expecting. Nope. All it involved was a quick internet search and a half-hour drive to the nearest New Age store that sold spell ingredients to ‘perform a ritual to temporarily strengthen the spirit.’ Granted, dragging Michael out in the middle of people may have been a _little_ risky, but there was something hilarious about watching the archangel interact with the cashier.

It’s sort of funny because Adam had assumed that Michael wasn’t a fan of witchcraft in general, so he’d just assumed that, once he saw the inside of the shop that this was going to end badly. But, nope. He'd had taken a look around and promptly proceeded to correct a few charms painted onto the walls.

The woman at the counter is strangely thrilled about it, apparently assuming that Michael is just another Wiccan. It’s sort of… adorable, actually—if Michael wasn’t actually one of the most ancient and powerful creatures in the universe. For a second, Adam kind of sees the person Gabriel sometimes alludes to: the big brother and teacher hidden deep in the celestial general.

So Adam waits patiently while they chat in lingo he hasn’t really brushed up on yet and looks around at the books on the shelves, wondering how much of them are based on fact. It takes half an hour, but it’s just good to get out of the Bunker for a change. When they finally wrap it up, Michael has a bag of seemingly random plants, rocks, and candles, all at a slight discount in exchange for the passed on information.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Adam starts as they head down the sidewalk to the car, “But I thought you guys were supposed to be all anti-witch.”

“Wicca,” Michael corrects, “Is a faith. One that has nothing to do with the types of witchcraft your brothers hunt.”

“I know that,” Adam scowls dryly at him before he shakes his head, “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just… sort of surprising is all.” He guesses, in retrospect, it shouldn’t be that surprising. Faith is kind of a big deal to Michael; Adam just hadn’t realizes that it extended to things that weren’t necessarily connected to his Father.

Something defensive in Michael eases slightly. He sighs softly and shakes his head. “She also unwittingly bears the touch of Athena’s favor,” he adds on, “There are enough battles to fight without angering one of the few pagans I find moderately tolerable.”

It’s the phrasing that throws Adam off for a second. Michael isn’t exactly a flowery speech sort of guy. Usually. “‘Touch?’” he tries and fails before adding on, “But I thought Athena didn’t…”

Michael, the smug jerk, is giving him that look that’s halfway between curious and amused. “Do humans assume all lovers express themselves solely through sex?” he asks bluntly.

But  _damn_. It should be illegal to look that good with that little half-smile subtly tugging up the corner of their lips. _Especially_ when they’re referencing sex.

“Not everybody, but just the phrasing...”

Oh, shit He was fumbling now. ‘Sexuality Education with Michael’ was _not_ on the list of things to do today.

Which, consequently, is when the previous sentence sinks in. Given that Michael, the bastard, looks like he knows the exact answer to the question and is just baiting the human, Adam changes subjects sullenly. “Alright, you ass: _you_ are buddies with a goddess?”

Naturally, a guy with his kids walking past them gives them a weird look, which Adam returns with a frown.

“Not particularly friends,” Michael answers smoothly, “But not enemies either. As I said: tolerable.” It’s weird, but Adam doesn’t have that much trouble seeing it. She _is_ a goddess of wisdom and war; they’ve at least got a few things in common. Assuming she’s anything like the myths anyway.

They lapse into silence for a little while, and Adam only breaks it once they’re in the car and heading back to the Bunker. “Speaking of supernatural-human romance. Dean and Cas,” he starts, “You know that’s what’s going on there.”

It isn’t a question because Michael is anything if not ridiculously sharp on the uptake.

“I know,” he agrees, tilting his head like he isn’t sure why they’re bringing the subject up, “Why?”

Adam frowns because he doesn’t actually want to admit it. At least Dean and Sam aren’t around to hear it: Dean would never shut up, and Sam would go all sappy-eyed. “’Cause it’s a good thing,” he says without room for question, even against an ancient creature of fire and light and power, “And it shouldn’t get screwed up because of some stupid rules.”

Michael eyes him in silence for a second before he leans back against the leather seats. He never does look all that comfortable in vehicles. Probably makes sense given that, until the Cage, he could just flap his wings and go anywhere in the universe. “It seems I’m hardly a decent judge of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ these days,” comes the blunt reply. There’s bitterness there, under the cool, matter-of-fact tone.

“Welcome to the Club of Shitty Judgement Calls, man. We call ourselves ‘humanity’ for short,” Adam huffs dryly, “Seriously though.”

“I used to think it was petty blasphemy—infatuation or minor rebellion at best—that drove my siblings to seek out humans,” he replies, casting his eyes back at the passing trees on the side of the road. Adam catches that hint of a fond smile. “Gabriel, Anael, Balthazar—a number of others.” The soft look turns a bit distant and pensive, but it’s still open in a way Michael isn’t when Sam and Dean are home. 

“Real nice, man,” Adam deadpans. The bitterness in it almost takes him off guard, but  _shit_  does it sting. He really doesn’t want to think about why and chalks it up to just general annoyance at the belittling of his species.

Michael turns back his way, eyes dark in the growing shade of the golden afternoon light. “I understand now,” he amends, eyes locked on Adam with that weird intensity even when the blonde is too busy driving to return it, “What they saw in humanity. Strength and courage to rival the seraphim. Compassion I have difficulty understanding.” His eyes cast to the road as he leans back against the leather seat like a prince on a throne and declares, “You’re a thing of beauty.”

To his credit, Adam doesn’t swerve. Mostly because he’s too busy reminding himself ‘ _That’s the plural ‘you,’ Milligan. Shut_ up _. The dude is a friggin’_ angel— _archangel—and is usually an ass.’_

Adam clears his throat, desperate for a subject change. Thankfully Michael takes that one out of his hands, “To answer your original question, Dean frequently infuriates me,” he replies bluntly, “I question Castiel’s sanity at times, but his choices are his own to make.”

Adam blinks because, while it’s hilarious because it’s so _normal_ , that… is a huge change from the Michael in his head back in the Cage. “So… Team Free Will, huh?” he teases lightly, testing the waters.

Michael looks at him this time, features subtly tinted with distaste like he’s crunched down on something sour. “…They had a name?”

This time he absolutely fails to hold back his laughter. Michael frowns his disapproval, but there’s a lightness to the atmosphere while Adam cranks his the Zeppelin tapes he’d nabbed from the impala.

Turns out Michael likes classic rock.

Luckily, Sam’s call comes in just a half hour later since they’re forced to pull off at exit just to turn back around to pick up their brothers, who have inexplicably ended up in a hell of a lot further out than Gabriel had originally planned.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, what’s the _Home and Garden_ crap?” Dean mutters with an irritable shake of his head, “This guy’s supposed to be a god, right? Not Martha friggin’ Steward.” He’d expected this to go screwy and violent fast—which it had—but he hadn’t expected to end up sitting at a kitchen table waiting on Mountain Man to come back with a map under the weirdly watchful eye of some brat kid named ‘Krissy,’ who sat around reading the news paper for fun.

“We should hear the deal, Dean,” Castiel urges, eyes drifting over to said brat kid like he can’t quite put his finger on what’s out of place there, “We’re here because Gabriel’s name still has weight.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs dryly, “Remind me why he isn’t the one deal with his old gang.”

He doesn’t get an answer because Charon is back. He spreads out a map of what looks like the state park, marked with a few random-ass symbols and circles. “You’re here because I want something,” Charon corrects bluntly, “Loki’s word hasn’t meant anything since he brought his kinslayer brother down on us.”

Alright. Dean is still in the ‘Gabriel is a regular jack-ass‘ camp, but the guy isn’t _that_ bad when he isn’t playing pagan, running off (which, okay, he hasn’t done recently), or making eyes at Sam. Castiel seems to like him for whatever weird reason. And, _alright_ , dude has a pretty good sense of humor and taste in TV shows. But still. Getting pinned with enough crap over the years makes a guy a _little_ bitter, so Dean is speaking up before he really considers it. “Oh, no. That one? That’s all on Lucifer and the cocky dumbasses who they could kill him,” he snaps, “Gabe warned them.”

Charon pins him with a look, dark eyes narrowed and furious with ancient anger, “The only reason you’re still breathing is because word is you’ve survived the Knight before.”

Dean goes tense, eyes narrowed, “Abaddon?”

Charon nods, tapping a spot that’s circled on the map. “Her forces drove me back here three weeks ago. I don’t have a damn clue how she did it, but I can’t go near my domain,” he replies, dark eyes shifting to the girl sitting on the other side of the room, “Her blood isn’t watered down enough to get much closer.”

Castiel frowns, eyes narrowed in confusion, “I was unaware warding existed for gods.”

Charon shakes his head unhappily. “I didn't think there was either,” he replies blandly, “There’s an opportunity here. Three days ago, Krissy over there heard about some jackass suits dead in the forest. Eyes and tongues burned out.” He nods toward Castiel. “Sounds like your lot to me. Got the black-eyes damn spooked though.”

Alright. So Dean can appreciate a dude that grins at the idea of demons getting roasted. He still doesn’t like domestic bullshit routine though. He grins around Charon at the dark-haired… whatever still reading the paper. “’Krissy’ your goddess name?” he needles.

She dispassionately flips him off without bothering to look up. “Demi-goddess,” she corrects.

Curiosity and amusement momentarily cooled, Dean turns back to Castiel. “Cas, I though you said it’d be Crowley and Abaddon gunning for these spots. Why would an angel care?” he asks.

Castiel’s got that drawn look, obviously thinking over the options. “We’re still soldiers of God, Dean,” he replies, “Many angels have taken up causes here on earth. It’s not unreasonable that one may be purging demons.”

Dean nods, considering the idea. It’s better than anything he can come up, but there’s something that just doesn’t sit right about it. “Well, I’ve got answers on speed dial,” he points out, looking expectantly at Charon, “If we’re done here.”

Charon shrugs, “Get my gateway open, you get the blade. Unlike Feathers’ kin, I keep my word.”

“Good,” Dean nods with a smile, “’Cause I’d hate to ruin the Home and Deco vibe here.”

For a second, he can see it in the look he gets: the guy who held the passage of souls in his hands, ancient and powerful. “Get out of my house before I change my mind,” Charon orders.

No point in arguing, so Dean gets up, and Castiel follows. He’s digging for the right cell even while they head back to the impala. “You’re calling Crowley,” Castiel states, falling easily into step with him.

“Damn straight,” Dean answers bluntly. He flips through his list of contacts but hesitates long enough to look at Castiel. “C’mon, Cas. You know something about this smells, and sure ain’t funky fresh.”

Castiel tilts his head thoughtfully. “I believe Charon was being truthful,” he replies, “Gabriel implied that he would honor a deal made in good faith.”

Dean shakes his head and hits the ‘call’ button, holding the receiver away from his mouth. Not that it’d do much good if Crowley happened to pick up. “Why would an angel be hunting demons in the middle of friggin' nowhere?” he asks, “’Cause something tells me you guys don’t really appreciate ‘rustic charm’ like _Southern Living_ in there.”

“I admit, it’s an odd choice of hunting ground,” Castiel agrees, “But I doubt many would concern themselves with the state of affairs of Hell.”

Crowley chooses that moment to pick up with a “I’m a busy man, Squirrel. Tell Princess that I’ll get him his Hellfire when I get it.”

“Oh, hell no, Crowley,” Dean counters, “We both know I’m not Mike’s damn secretary.”

“No,” Crowley replies smoothly, “You’re his prettiest Sunday suit. Well… I hear there was this woman back in Mesopotamia, but you’re certainly the best tailored—“

“It’s about Abaddon,” Dean cuts in because, seriously, he’d thought they’d gotten past the ‘true vessel’ bullshit years ago.

There’s a _click_ , and he’s about a second and a half away from calling back just to yell at the bastard for hanging up on him when he hears the leaves crunch behind them. Sure enough, Crowley is standing there, giving both Dean and Castiel an expectant look. “You boys rang?”

Dean isn’t happy about it, but he sure as hell doesn’t want Charon showing up to throw whammies at Crowley before they figure out what’s going on. So he opens up the back door of the impala and jerks his thumb at the seat. “Get in,” he orders.

Crowley settles inside like a smug prince, “My, my. What a privilege.”

Castiel hesitates when the back door closes, eyes on the demon inside the car. “Would you prefer I watch him?” he asks.

Dean lets out a breath and shakes his head. “’s fine, Cas. We’re _useful_ to him right now,” he points out as he climbs into the driver’s seat. They manage to hit the road without much trouble for once. It’s only then that he glances in the rear view mirror at the King of Hell, “’What’s with the good mood, Crowley?”

The demon casually inspects his fingers, but the pleased smirk doesn’t vanish. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d guess the guy was _preening_. “I do believe you’ve done me a service, Squirrel. Apparently there are distinct advantages to conveniently going off the grid just before the Big Boss gets parole.”

Dean draws a blank on what that means. Especially since that definitely hadn’t been the tune Crowley had been growling at them a week ago.

It’s Castiel that puts the dots together first. “This is Lucifer’s work,” he announces gravely, electric eyes narrowed at the demon’s reflection, “And you knew.”

Crowley shrugs, flicking his eyes up to glance at the two of them for a bare second. “You know what they say, feather: never show your hand,” he chuckles, “It seems Abaddon, would-be Queen, has been relegated to a mere stepping stone for an archangel on the warpath.”

Dean scowls, tension locking joints and muscle. They don’t have the Colt, Michael is at least a couple hours away, and the only good thing is that Sam is currently prancing around the Amazon with Gabriel.

“And yet you neglected to tell Michael about this,” Castiel accuses, “Information was part of the bargain.”

Crowley rolls his eyes like he has a right to be put out by the accusation. “Oh, please; as though _you_ have any right to lecture me about breaking deals,” he drawls, “Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to show up here if Lucifer were still in town? I’m hardly you two.” He shifts lazily, and Dean’s leer dares him to say a word about Baby’s seats. Apparently the demon sees it for the lost battle it is and shifts his attention back to Castiel. “I don’t expect Princess is entirely fond of hearing old news.”

“You said Abaddon’s the stepping stone,” Dean points out, “So what’s the end game?”

Crowley lifts his brows in a way that, on anyone else, might have looked innocent. “That _is_ the million dollar question, isn’t it?” he hums.

Dean knows it’s a bluff, but he’s got no leverage at the moment, and prying information from Crowley is all about leverage. He glances at Castiel, who is still frowning. Okay. So he’s got no idea either.

Just friggin’ peachy.

“Okay. So are there actually any demons lurking around after unholy vengeance?” Dean changes tactics, “’Cause I need that Hell gate open.”

Crowley hums thoughtfully. “Well, in that case, I may be able to lend a hand,” he replies, “But feathers is going to need to make a grocery run.”

None of them are stupid enough to not know that it’s anything other than Crowley wanting to speak to Dean alone. Castiel’s eyes narrow and shoulders set in the way they do before a fight. Sure, sometimes it’s easy to forget that the awkward, sarcastic man is a damn fine warrior with an eternity under his belt.

Crap. It shouldn’t be that hot.

Crowley, naturally, sees something that tips his hand and laughs. “Ah! I didn’t realize congratulations were in order,” he chuckles, “Finally made it official, have we?”

“Shut up, ass-wipe,” Dean scowls at roughly the same time Castiel replies with a blunt “Yes.”

Of course, the King of Jackasses thinks it’s hilarious. He shakes his head when he’s done with his shits and giggles, “Seriously though, Castiel. I need those ingredients.”

Orders to Castiel fly about as well as they always have, but he knows that they’re in a bind at the moment. He glances toward Dean, the silent question in his eyes. The hunter thinks it over once. He’s got holy water in the car, an angel blade, and direct prayer line to Castiel and Michael.

He nods his consent and drops Castiel off at the grocery store with Crowley’s list while Dean and the demon wait in the impala. “Alright. What’s this about?” Dean demands.

Crowley’s grin is all teeth and sharp edges, “I don’t imagine, with all those angels around, you’ve heard of the First Blade?”

“Cut the crap, Crowley,” Dean snaps, “Skip to the point.”

“Oh, it’s part of the point,” the demon assures him, “See, I understand it’s one of the few things capable of killing Abaddon and your lovely friend, Metatron. Two birds, one stone as it were.”

Dean blinks because that sounds _way_ too good to be true, so Dean listens to the pitch. Even glances through John’s journal to find the hunt Crowely’s talking about. “If it’s all that easy, why didn’t Michael and Gabriel say anything about it?” Dean asks, “Or is that why you wanted Cas out?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “ _Angels_ ,” he sighs, “Do you really think Michael trusts you, of all people, with something that could kill even him? Think about it, Squirrel: do you have any insurance if power goes Princess’s head again? Do you think he _wants_ you to?”

Dean clinches his jaw tight.

Crowley reaches forward to tap his shoulder in a mockery of affection, “Think on it, Squirrel. Call me when you’re ready to do business.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner is… bizarrely normal. Well… As normal as anything ever is when it involves Gabriel anyway.

The archangel had dragged Sam into a small Mediterranean place a few blocks away from where they landed. It’s a nice change of pace from shitty diners and gas station food. Not that Sam doesn’t enjoy his brother’s cooking because Dean has always been excellent at that sort of thing when he’s got the tools to work with. On the road it’s just different.

And then there’s Gabriel, eyes bright with mirth, mid-story as he gestures with his cheesecake fork like it’s an actual weapon. “So I told Thor, since he looked so pretty in it, he could keep the dress,” he finishes with a grin, “Shoulda seen the look on the big dope’s face.”

Sam scoffs and shakes his head, “I’m sure that went over well.”

Gabriel shrugs, still light with amusement, “Well, you know the Aesir—as weird as you guys with the freaky gender stereotypes.”

“You’re feeling better,” Sam guesses with a lazy, crooked smile.

Gabriel nods, working on a piece of cheesecake. “’Course. Your soul’s built to heal, kiddo,” he agrees, “Speaking of which, since we’ve got Mikey and Junior heading over, we don’t need to keep playing the pagan two-step.” He shifts his cheesecake aside enough to lean across the table to two fingers stretched out to Sam’s forehead.

The hunter grabs his wrists in a gentle hold to stop him. “Wait,” he cuts in, “This is helping you, right? Cas said you were still recovering.”

There’s a second that Gabriel looks like he almost wants to tilts his head, but it ends in his features shifting into confusion. He drops his hand back to the table, and Sam follows it down with his own. “Yeah,” he answers, “Hard to spend a couple weeks in holy fire and not get a little toasty around the primaries. Why?”

“What does this bond do exactly?” Sam continues, “To me, I mean.”

Understanding seeps into Gabriel’s features, and the sly mirth from before eases into something softer. “Surprisingly not that much for a deal with a god,” he admits, “My part of that gibberish? Swore to protect you, bless your fields, may you have many children, fell your enemies in battle, etc. etc.”

“This all seems pretty one-sided,” Sam points out with a frown. Pagan gods have never really seemed that magnanimous when he’s dealt when them in the past.

“Yeah, but, as things stand right now?” Gabriel continues, “I get final say where your soul ends up, but that’s kinda my shtick anyway now that Dad's skedaddled—Archangel of Judgement and all.”

Sam nods, chewing it over his head for a minute. “Then leave it,” he finally answers, “Until you’re at a full charge.”

The fact that Gabriel just shrugs and leans back makes Sam grateful. There’s been a lot of blame passed around lately about decisions and who’s capable of making them for whom, and he’s glad that the archangel isn’t second guessing him. “Hey, I’m not gonna complain,” Gabriel tells him, wiggling his brows, “You’ve got a sexy soul.”

To which Sam literally cannot think of a response.

He’s staring at Gabriel, incredulous and slightly disturbed when Adam drops into the seat next to him with a grumble of “Today sucked. Now feed me.”

Michael sets next to Gabriel, dark hair a mess and completely windblown. He doesn’t really seem to care (or even notice it) even if it draws a snicker from Gabriel, who quickly remembers to mock offense. “Hey! Get your own table,” he snaps, shoving at his brother, who has apparently gone completely unmovable.

“So, the Bunker’s haunted,” Adam announces with the bluntness that only people on the verge of exhaustion really seem to achieve. It does the trick and stops the petty argument between the unstoppable force and the unmovable object across from them.

Sam tenses up. It can’t be a Man of Letters—he and Dean would have noticed earlier. Can’t be anything that came from the outside because of the wards. “Kevin,” he breathes.

There’s an stereo of “Kevin Tran?” from both parties on the other side of the table. Gabriel scowls and lightly smacks Michael’s arm with a grumble of “Don’t cramp my style, bro.”

Michael completely ignores it with all the ease of a professional older brother, watching Sam carefully, “I have a spell to strengthen his manifestation. I need to speak with him.”

Sam nods, feeling the weight of guilt and dread in the pit of his stomach like lead. “Yeah,” he agrees roughly, “Okay.”

So much for a relatively successful evening. 

 

* * *

 

The spell to break the wards around the Hell portal is surprisingly easy. Bad news? There are still demon husks laying around, and they smell _horrific_. Dean gets pretty quickly why Crowley thinks the massacre is Lucifer's work. He’s only seen a handful of angels that can—or prefer—to chunk meat suits into gooey bits (and tries hard not to wince at the memory). Even fewer could take on what looks like five or six demons, apparently without a blade or real problems.

Crowley, naturally, has long since ditched them just to be on the safe side.

“Nasty piece of work.”

Castiel has his blade in hand by the time Dean turns to face Charon, who is busy nudging the one intact, fried meat suit with his boot. “Yeah, well, that’s the devil for you,” he shrugs, “So. You’ve got your magic portal pack. We gonna do this the easy way?”

Charon rolls his eyes. He lifts a hand, and the blade materializes in his palm. “Useless trinket to me,” he says, “Aside from the leverage. Give me that spell, and it’s yours.” Dean hands over the neat list written in Crowley’s stupidly elegant script. He’s almost surprised to feel the cool metal of the dagger in his hand. Charon takes a step back, hands in his pockets. “Come back here again, Winchester? I won’t miss next time,” he warns ominously.

And promptly disappears in an elegant curl of starry black fog. Because apparently there’s a rule about monsters being as dramatic as friggin’ premadonas.

Dean shakes his head and turns back to Castiel, who has been watching the piles of goo like they have some kind of meaning. “You ready?” he prompts.

Castiel falls into step as they head back to the car. He eyes the blade, but it doesn’t seem to be of much interest overall. Instead, his eyes flick up to Dean with a curious tint. “What did Crowley say to you?” he asks abruptly.

Dean very nearly freezes. On one hand, he trusts Castiel—don’t want to lie to him anymore. On the other, Castiel is getting close to Michael and probably wouldn’t appreciate the idea of Dean still entertaining the idea of hunting down something that could kill the archangel if he goes rouge. In the end, he settles for a shake of his head and “Just his usual bullshit about ganking Abaddon.”

Castiel knows there’s more to it, but he lets it go. Even goes as far as to change the subject with a “Gabriel insisted this was a ‘date.’” It’s… kind of adorable, the way the air quote are pretty obvious in his tone. Adorable for a guy who regularly stabs monsters, anyway.

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No, man,” he replies, “This is work, and your brother is a dick.”

“I know,” Castiel replies with a hint of a smile, “I believe he intended to harass me into bringing up the subject with you.”

The fact that he _knows_ Gabriel was playing him and went along with it… Well, crap. Dean sighs and reaches out, curling an arm around Castiel’s shoulders to draw him closer. The angel gives off the same amount of heat as any regular human, but his scent is solely _Cas_ —ozone and crisp rain. In the cool, Fall air, it’s nice, and Dean’s still getting used to the fact that he gets this now—that he can just reach out to Castiel when he wants without screwing up already blurred boundaries.

And Castiel reaches back, an almost possessive arm sliding around his waist to curl at a hip. It’s not exactly a comfortable set-up to walk through a beaten-down hiking trail, but they make it work.

“Listen,” Dean says, “We get you fixed first. That’s priority. Then we celebrate and work the rest of this crap out. Just you and me. Deal?”

Castiel watches him, pensive and quite. He tips his head to brush his lips in a flutter across Dean’s jaw. “No,” he says, whisky-rough voice almost humming with amusement against the hunter’s skin before he pulls back just enough to meet Dean’s eyes. _Damn_ , is that hot. Dean wonders what that voice would sound like totally wrecked and breathless, the angel behind it wide-eyed and—

And Castiel is talking again, “When I agreed to this, it wasn’t conditional to times of peace. Our lives are never… _easy_. Moderating that will be difficult, but you’re worth it, Dean.”

Dean stops walking, and Castiel stills next to him. “Dude… You don’t play fair,” he accuses, trying to swallow back the rough knot of emotions like a good, repressed hunter. Touchy-feely is Sam’s boat.

The angel smiles, face _almost_ folding into the familiar lines of confusion. “You’re Dean Winchester,” Castiel tells him simply, “If I didn’t, I would lose.”

Dean rolls his eyes and tries hard to shelf thoughts that would make the drive home uncomfortable. He presses a kiss to the top of Castiel’s dark hair, and they start walking again. “C’mon, smartass. Let’s go home.” After the long—but surprisingly decent—day, it’s good to back on the road with Baby and Castiel. Metallica makes a pleasant backdrop (to Dean anyway), and the sun sets not too far out. The idea of taking the night off seems to be a silent agreement between the two of them, and damn, if Dean isn’t grinning like a fool the whole way back.

So it’s only natural that, when they get back to the Bunker, Serious Shit is going down in the form of a ghost that may or may not be Kevin and Metatron’s recent breaking and entering escapade. Michael, apparently, has been busy painting the place up again.

In the burn of guilt and dread, Crowley’s little speech about the First Blade completely slips his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we are! Classes have officially started again, so I'm not sure how regular my update schedule will be until I figure out this semester's work load. I'll try to keep everybody updated on Tumblr (when I actually get the internet working again).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! More specifically, so is this story! Thank you again to anyone who's still stuck with me through the long wait for this chapter. You guys are amazing, and I would love to give you all my thanks for the support! I'm going to keep this sort of short since I'm sort of en route for a really shitty standardized test, but again. Thank you so much to everyone who's kept interest! 
> 
> Typical warnings apply. Still unbetaed (and has been rush-edited to get this out since I'm so late), so any mistakes are mine. On another note, I am thinking about beginning the search for a beta if anyone has any tips. I'm sort of new to the whole process.

The night before speaking with the prophet is one filled with silence, carefully preserved space, and shared blame. Sam and Dean each blame themselves in their own ways, Castiel feels the guilt of failing a charge, and Gabriel and Michael (loathe as they are to admit it) feel a now familiar low burn of shame at failing yet another of Father’s mandates. Gabriel, naturally, is far better at hiding it, but Michael sees the way Gabriel’s jaw clenches at the mention of the prophet, Sam’s unwitting possession, and the topic of Heaven's prison in general.

The latter festers like an open sore in the tentative peace between the archangels. Yet another symbol of everything that went horribly wrong after Father left.

Michael isn’t nearly as good an actor as Gabriel and his sharp-edged smiles, so he spends the twilight hours in the library, staring blankly at a page in a book he’s already read. He hears his brothers speaking quietly a few rooms down under the low hum of the television. Distance is preferable to a fight they can’t afford to have among themselves at the moment. They all know that dissent is something that will tear them apart if they indulge it. Judging from Sam’s breathing patterns, he’s minutes away from entering REM sleep. Adam, the only being in the Bunker not weighed down with blame, is far ahead of his brother on that front. Dean has recently woken from a nightmare and shuffles down the hall.

Michael turns his senses elsewhere, assuming that he’ll seek out Castiel. Gabriel, of course, will allow it, and he prefers to give them what privacy he can.

Idle time isn’t something that Michael is accustomed to. In all his long life, there has always been a task at hand—something to manage and oversee. He's a creature born into Darkness for the express purposes of warring against it; sometimes he thinks he simply wasn't designed for peace. Though… perhaps that isn’t entirely the case. He remembers the first few millennia of Creation—teaching the little ones to fly, raising Lucifer in something other than war, watching the spark of fusion cascade into a star, and listening to another of Gabriel's stories or Raphael's discoveries.

Sometimes he wonders if those days were the calm before the less-than-proverbial storm: if those were a reward for the Darkness and Leviathan and all the things yet to come. Now? Now he isn’t so sure he’ll ever know the answer, and for the first time in his long existence, he finds himself asking ‘why.’

Naturally, that’s when Dean decides to prove him wrong yet again by entering the library and walking up to the chair across the table from Michael. He takes a seat with purpose in his stride, eyes dark and expression tense. It’s a strange harkening back to years ago—of watching his true vessel through the eyes of John Winchester with the weight of Destiny on their shoulders and the beat of war thrumming through his Grace.

“Can I help you?” Michael prompts while Dean visibly gathers himself.

The hunter scowls unappreciatively. “Cut the polite crap,” he demands, “We need to talk.”

Michael lifts a brow challengingly. It’s not a good idea. No matter what connection they were designed to have, they consistently grate on the last threads of each other’s patience. Too alike in too many ways and too different in too many others. In spite of that—or perhaps because of it—Michael recognizes the look of determination and thought. Whatever Dean has to say is serious and has been considered thoroughly. “Very well,” he agrees, “What do you want?”

Dean straightens up with sharp-eyed watchfulness like a man betting his last dollar on a hand of cards. “Honestly? I figure you’re gonna shove a knife in our backs the second you get your fancy, cooperate desk back. That 'Holier than Thou' shit? That doesn’t just go away—not even in Hell,” he states darkly.

Muscle memory almost sets Michael’s teeth on edge at the accusation and tone. Human bodies, he's learned, are incredibly touchy with their subconscious responses. He chooses to narrow his eyes instead. A handful of years ago (the blink of an eye for an angel), he would have sunk proverbial teeth and talon into each of Dean’s insecurities in retaliation. It takes work, but he pulls back from the urge to fight. “And you haven’t entertained the same thought about me?” he challenges instead, lips smoothing into a thin, unamused smile, “I’m hardly the one you want behind the ‘fancy desk,’ after all.”

There’s a harsh twitch at Dean’s jaw, almost like a wince. Michael’s eyes narrow, and Dean squares his shoulders. They’ve unintentionally hit the crux of the matter. “I don’t trust you,” Dean reiterates, “But I trust Crowley less when he’s got something up his sleeve.”

Michael tilts his head at the unexpected proclamation. “Why come to me?” he prompts carefully. This is the sort of conversation he expects to hear second hand from Castiel. He isn’t offended. He knows that his youngest brother has earned the Winchesters’ trust as much as he’s lost it. Were Michael in Dean's place, he knows that he would be more likely to go to Adam or Gabriel.

“Because Crowley’s sales pitch included a way to gank your ass,” Dean announces significantly, “Some archangel weapon. And now I’m telling you about it 'cause Crowley doesn't just give the upper hand to somebody else." And now Michael understands the reasoning. There has always been a divide between the seraphim and archangels. Knowledge is just as much a part of that as the difference in power. Dean continues then, and everything stands still, "First Blade ringing any bells?”

Michael’s thoughts buzz, human neurons rushing in rapid fire to keep up with an archangel’s thought processes. Heat leeches from his Grace as surely as though Lucifer himself had been in close contact. He forgets to breathe and blink under the weight of revelation. “What?” he demands, voice barely a whisper for all that it rings with enough power to rattle glass.

Down the hall, the TV goes silent.

Dean looks proud, even under the wince. He’s found a chink in Michael’s armor and digs in fast to exploit it because they both know Michael is at his most candid when he’s off guard. “That looks like on hell of a bell to me,” the hunter continues, “From what I hear, it can kill Metatron and Abaddon. Two jackasses, one stone. But then I remembered who was offering and couldn’t figure out why Crowley wouldn’t just try to take something that powerful for himself.”

Michael wonders how humans can think under the flood of chemicals and adrenaline that floods their systems so constantly. He hears the rush of blood over his vessel’s ears, and his heart is an annoyance with the way it pounds against his ribs. “You have no idea what forces you tempt,” he warns, tone flat and empty and ageless, “If you disregard everything else I tell you, listen now: leave that abomination to obscurity. Hell on earth is preferable.”

Something in Dean startles at that. It’s good—a sign that something of the danger is getting through. “Then it actually is yours,” he presses.

The humorless, bitter laugh the comment jars out startles Michael himself almost as much as it does Dean. “No,” the archangel corrects. He doesn’t tell Dean that the blade by itself is useless. He doesn’t mention how close everything they’re working for has come to ruin. If Cain hadn’t been able to hold the Mark in the first place…

He still wonders how desperate Lucifer must have been to prove his point that even he would dare risk such a thing.

“If you’re so eager to have a means to end me, I will give Adam my sword when this is finished,” he swears because he trusts Adam not to use it unless he has to, “But if you value anything in your brothers—in Castiel or yourself—you will abandon this now.”

Dean is watching him with more curiosity than irritation now. It's a good sign that something of the gravity at hand has gotten through. The hunter plays it off well, though. He makes a strange motion like an aborted shrug and looks expectant, "Must be pretty damn powerful to get your feathers in a twist. The friggin' apocalypse couldn't even do that."

Michael frowns, wanting Dean to know that he's well aware that the statement is meant to fish for information. He knows that Dean won't be satisfied until Michael tells him exactly what the Blade is and why the risk far exceeds the benefit. But these are Heaven's trade secrets. Things Michael only knows because he is the fourth born being in all of existence—because he was there to see it happen firsthand. There has been a mandate of silence on the subject since the Darkness was banished. A few years ago, he would have killed Dean (true vessel and impending apocalypse or not) to keep even the mention of the Blade hidden. He feels a hint of pride that it only arises as an afterthought in regards to the past, but that doesn't particularly help the current dilemma.

It belatedly occurs to him that this is free will: flying blind with no way of telling if the information he has will either warn Dean from the path of the Blade or give just enough information to aid him in his own destruction. There is no right answer or wrong answer. Simply a choice like the one so long ago: to obey an age old edict or not.

"The blade is useless alone. The demon wants you to take the Mark of Cain," he begins. Once he starts, the words continue to flow without much thought, like a dam he can't hold any longer. "He hasn't lied about he power of the Mark and Blade together: with them, you could kill nearly anything in existence. And you would because that is the nature of the creature contained within the Mark. Chaos incarnate. You know it as the Darkness: the antithesis to my Father and corruption to any of His creations." That isn't the full story. No matter how much he wishes for Dean to abandoned this, Michael refuses to give the man the details unless he has no other choice. Those are too personal, and Michael is a private creature by nature. It's enough, however, that, were the sky to split open and Father to condemn him for this—his first rebellion—it would have happened already.

He isn't even aware of how much he's been expecting that until it fails to happen.

Instead, he feels oddly settled. Not, he thinks, because of some spiteful desire to act against authority. Moreso because this feels... right.

Dean has taken on a new look of consideration. His expression is somewhat less guarded now. Perhaps it's the effect of knowing roughly what he's being tempted with. Good hunters know the value of information, after all. It keeps them alive and one step ahead of enemies far more powerful than themselves.  He shifts slightly, possibly stalling for a few more seconds to evaluate whether or not he can trust Michael. "He didn't want Cas to know," he points out.

It's more stalling, but Michael chooses to indulge it, "The younger of the Host would have heard rumors. In theory, just enough to know to alert an archangel if they encountered signs of the Mark's return." And then it strikes him. "Why didn't you tell Castiel first?"

The wince is proof enough that Dean knows the error he's made. "Cas... He's got enough on his shoulders right now without worrying about me, too," he admits. Apparently that's too much vulnerability because Dean's expression shuts down seconds later, complete with a scowl. "It's not like you're Mr. Share-and-Care either."

"I've made the same mistake," Michael agrees flatly because this is something he's made peace with, "I suggest you look at what my secrecy cost me."

That's the end of the conversation. Michael sees that long before Dean makes a frustrated noise and pushes himself up from his seat. "We're sticking to the original plan," he decides first, "I'm not Crowley's damn puppet." With that declaration, he marches away from the table and out of the door.

Michael watches him leave, far too distracted by ancient memories to even look down at the familiar page again. At the very least, he honestly believes they've averted at least the one crisis. Given the circumstances, it's... something. Granted, he also isn't blind to the fact that Castiel follows Dean back to his room. He doesn't fool himself into believing that his brothers were somehow oblivious to the conversation taking place through only a few man-made walls.

"Gotta say I'm actually impressed," Gabriel says from Michael's right, all but confirming his assumption, "A couple of years ago, that little share-and-care wouldn't have gotten wrapped up in a neat little bow. Pretty sure it would’ve bought old Dean-o a one-way ticket to holy paradise."

"You didn't know me a few years ago, Gabriel," Michael points out. He doesn’t argue with the statement though. Not when he knows it’s true.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good change. Not the ‘I just grew another head out of my arm’ kind,” Gabriel tells him. He places his forearm across Michael’s chair, his brother’s warmth bleeding through the fabric of his shirt where it’s pressed against his back. He leans forward over Michael’s shoulder when Michael gives no sign of stopping him. It’s a good sign despite all of the tension from before. Gabriel doesn’t tend to initiate contact if he’s truly angry.

“Is it?” Michael counters, “Angels were never meant to change.” It’s half-hearted at best. They both know that questioning has never been his strong suit, so he feels most comfortable framing it as an argument.

Gabriel snorts, more amused than angry, “We both know that’s in your head.”

It’s another thing Michael doesn’t deny. Instead, he shifts the subject because his doubts are not nearly as important as what he’s just learned. “Why would Crowley risk tempting Dean now?” he proposes even though he already has a relatively safe guess, “It seems rather sloppy given our contact with the Winchesters.”

“C’mon, bro. You don’t usually like strutting your feathers,” Gabriel frowns in Michael’s periphery, “Am I supposed to ask ’who’s there?’ or are you gonna tell me?”

“Lucifer is searching for Abaddon,” Michael points out, turning just enough to give his brother his direct attention, “If he intends to use her to find Cain, Crowley would have no choice but to press ahead of schedule before Lucifer finds him.”

He feels Gabriel go tense in a way that is grace-deep. When he speaks again, all of the usual joy is gone from his tone. It reminds Michael too much of times of war. “Is he after Cain as a Knight…?” The unasked ‘or’ hangs in the air between them.

Michael shakes his head, “I haven’t the slightest idea, little brother.”

Gabriel leans back, but his fingers grip at Michael’s shoulder hard enough to cause a human discomfort. Michael turns to watch him, unconsciously seeking out the scar in his brother’s grace. He regrets it the second it earns him a scowl from Gabriel.

Michael grasps Gabriel’s forearm. It’s a completely separate form of comfort than he’s used to giving his younger siblings, but it seems to work regardless. “I meant what I told you, Gabriel,” he assures, “There’s been enough loss. I’ll protect you.”

For just an infinitesimal second, Gabriel’s fingers dig in just a fraction harder before his grip loosens completely. Oddly enough, the ensuing smile is small, but warm and genuine. “I know,” he says, tapping Michael’s shoulder similar to gestures he’s seen between the Winchesters, “It’s good to have you back, Michael.”

He leaves soon after. Michael stills for minutes afterward with Gabriel’s words. He knows any attempt to bring it up again will be met with evasive humor. For all that they are, the words have power, and Michael takes comfort in them.

It’s a surprisingly good thing amid the undoubtedly chaotic future.

 

* * *

 

Sam wakes up with the morbid, phantom smell of burnt flesh and the feel of angel grace at his fingertips.

The stumble to the bathroom is blessedly quick. By the time he’s fully awake, he’s washing away the remnants of yesterday’s dinner with toothpaste. He shuts his eyes and desperately clings to better memories. Anything that isn’t the memories left behind from procession and his own hand in Kevin’s death.

He’s just finished brushing his teeth when someone knocks. He opens the door with a bottle of water in his hand and his stomach still churning with the lingering guilt and horror.

It’s Gabriel, but the smile is just for show. “Hiya, honeybun,” he teases, “Mind if I join?”

If not for the dream, Sam might have spared a moment to be thankful for the effortless way Gabriel navigated Sam’s unspoken rules. Then again, it’s probably not nearly as effortless as he makes it seem, and Sam gets that. It’s the sort of appreciation that comes from someone who’s been on the other side of that equation and knows how to recognize it in someone else.

That has Sam nodding, even with his heart still pounding uncomfortably against his ribs.

Gabriel steps inside and closes the door behind him. He turns to Sam and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something but stops short the second he gives Sam a once over. “You okay, kiddo?” he asks instead.

Sam means to choke back the memories of the dream and say ‘yeah’ like he always does. He’s a hunter, and losing himself to the emotion is dangerous on the field; it’s just something that translates over to his personal life, too. To his credit, he tires. By the time he starts with the “I’m…” Gabriel is frowning at him, a look of disappointment hidden under the skepticism. Sam sighs and shakes his head. “Nightmares,” he admits simply.

It’s enough that some of Gabriel’s tension eases into something much softer. With easy steps he moves forward and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. It’s warm, and his fingers are soft on Sam’s bare skin as Gabriel guides him toward the bed. Sam, for his part, gives in and steps backward but is temporarily fascinated by that little hint of more-than-human strength that even Gabriel’s care can’t entirely hide. He chooses to latch onto that rather than the blurry memories as he takes a seat at the edge of the bed.

It should be weird, the way the archangel is already familiar enough with him to slide into his space, but somehow Sam is at ease because that’s just who Gabriel is. Personable, bright, charismatic. It’s not hard to see why he was the Messenger.

Fingers wind through Sam’s hair, putting it back into order after a troubled night. “Michael personally trained Gadreel to guard the Garden,” he says abruptly. Sam tenses at the name, but Gabriel’s fingers are working magic, sliding with just enough pressure to be pleasant against the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. The angel doesn’t usually say things in _that tone_ unless there’s a point, so he sits quietly. Gabriel hums a pleased note as he continues, “They used to spar. Mikey would win, but Gadreel could hold his own as well as Raph and me. There’s a reason Luci pulled a fast one on him instead of going mano-a-mano back then.”

Sam lets out a slow breath. It doesn’t help to think about who the angel was that used his body to kill Kevin. Who Dean let possess him without his true permission. “That doesn’t change anything,” he points out, fighting the strange, harsh wave of disappointment in his stomach, “He stole my _body_ , Gabriel. He _killed_ Kevin.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Nothing justifies either of those,” he agrees, surprising Sam with the decisiveness of his tone. One hand slides across the planes of Sam’s cheek to gently lift his chin so that Gabriel catches his eyes. “Look, I’m not spinning some sap story to justify what he did; I’m telling you because you need to know that Heaven’s sentries aren’t made weak or stupid—especially when they get backed into a corner.” Gabriel’s thumb brushes over the bones of Sam’s cheek. Despite himself, Sam leans slightly into it because the touch is grounding. Comforting. It’s been a long time—probably Amelia—since someone touched him like that. “We’ve all got our limits, Sam: there’s some shit out there not even Winchester stubbornness can stop. Doesn’t make it your fault.”

Sam lets out a long breath to settle himself. Gabriel’s hand cups the back of his neck with the barest hint of a suggestion. The hunter doesn’t fight it any more than he had a few minutes earlier. He lets himself lean forward, resting his forehead against the slight, gentle curve of Gabriel’s stomach. He wraps his arms around Gabriel’s back because he’s allowed to now. “You knew,” he gathers, too light to be an accusation, “Before you knocked.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say that he senses Gabriel’s smile. “Yeah. I’d say I’m sorry, but somebody has to kick your self-depicting ass into gear,” he admits, “And it’s a fine ass, so I guess I don’t mind volunteering…”

The comment jars a laugh from Sam. He unwinds from Gabriel, who lets his hands drop to Sam’s shoulders. He’s smiling again, but it’s muted and somehow more private than his usual laughter. “As long as you’re feeling magnanimous…” Sam replies, trying to clear some of the emotion from his throat, “I’m sure Dean and Adam are enjoying the extra bacon.”

Gabriel playfully flicks his cheek, “Of you're gonna play it that way, c’mon. Before your brothers eat all my food. I’m not _that_ generous.”

It’s not magically okay. When Sam thinks about it, he still feels the ice in the pit of his stomach. As he moves to the bathroom to get dressed, he thinks that maybe he can face Kevin with a little less guilt. 

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley shows up in the middle of breakfast.

It’s friggin’ weird, and Dean tries to take a stab at him with a fork when he goes for Sammy’s plate with his stupid, fancy crepe. Breakfast is Dean’s indulgence, and he isn’t about to let Crowley mess with that. Especially when the demonic bastard doesn’t actually need to eat.

It’s the same logic he parrots constantly at Gabriel. Since the Trickster is apparently deathly allergic to logic, Dean has given up on that front and just makes extra now. Giving in that much is a struggle. He’s too damn proud to do it again. Especially when he’s still pissed at Crowley for starting all the shit about the First Blade and how it’s indirectly gotten him that quietly disappointed look from Cas… even if he admits that part of that is his own fault.

At least he’d come clean about the whole thing last night. Hell, Cas had even looked almost… proud when Dean told him he wasn’t going down that rabbit hole unless there was no other choice.

Sometimes he thinks Castiel forgives him of too much too fast.

Michael saunters in next. Since he’s usually just sitting nearby already with a book in hand if he’s going to show up, Dean figures he’s sensed Crowley and decided to make an appearance. For once, Dean isn’t going to complain. The archangels are damn good at keeping Crowley on defense.

“Morning gang,” Crowley greets, helping himself to a glass of orange juice. Dean doesn’t stop him this time, and it’s worth it just to see the demon scrunch his nose in disgust and set it right back down. “Really, Squirrel? Extra pulp?”

“What do I look like, paranormal soccer mom?” Dean counters between a bite of toast and piece of bacon, “Take it up with Sammy.”

Deterred by Sam’s health nut orange juice, Crowley takes a step back. Or maybe it’s because Michael takes a tactical step forward. And, yeah. Dean’s still pretty pissed at the guy over the whole ‘wear you like a suit to kill our brothers’ bull, but even he has to admit that being reminded of how much firepower they have in their collective pocket is… sort of badass.

When Michael starts to speak, Crowley holds up a hand. “Don’t get your feathers in a bunch, princess,” he cuts in, digging through his jacket pocket, “I always hold up my end of the bargain.” What he produces is everything Dean tries to forget. Oh, he can’t see it, jammed into an opaque, steel container as it is. Shit like hellfire, though? It leaves a mark on the world.

To his credit, he doesn’t jump like a spooked cat when Cas just appears from straight out of friggin’ nowhere, but it’s a close call. He barely bites back a comment about buying some bells for Cas to wear because he _knows_ Adam, the little smartass, will have a ‘kinky’ comment waiting… assuming Crowley doesn’t beat him to the punch.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Cas doesn’t even need to make a huge deal with the mushy gesture crap because Dean gets the point the second he looks up. Sick or not, this is the same Cas who fought his way through Hell to pull Dean back from the fires of damnation, and that was long before they became friends and… whatever the hell they are now. Between the two of them, it’s just a stupid little bottle.

Michael takes the bottle and pockets it. Just like that, the eerie pressure in the room is gone, and Dean relaxes. Well, as much as he will with a demon, his youngest brother, and a couple of angels in one room, anyway. “Alright. You debuted as the UPS guy. Now scram. We’re busy save the world again,” he shoos.

Crowley frowns like he’s been stung. Dean just considers it payback for the whole First Blade mess. “Cute. Petulance is a good look on you, Squirrel. Speaking of which…” he counters, turning his attention back to Michael, “I trust Dean here gave you my message about brother dearest?”

Michael nods, “Lucifer's priorities are elsewhere. You have nothing to fear at the moment.”

“Which means us,” Dean points out, pointing an accusing fork at Michael.

Michael frowns, but it’s Adam that beats him to the punch. “Or Metatron. Pretty sure he’s gonna be pissed about that, too,” he announces.

Dean choses to glare at Michael because he knows exactly how his kid half-brother picked up the memories to analyze the devil. To his credit, the twitch in the angel’s jaw is pretty telling that he already knows that.

“In either case,” Cas adds on, breaking the mood, “Michael is correct: you have nothing to be concerned about at the moment. We need time to prepare, and it isn’t in your best interest for us to fail.”

Crowley narrows his eyes at Cas with a distinctly unpleasant leer, “Honestly, dear. Let’s not argue in front of the children, shall we?”

The conversation turns over to petty insults that Dean adds to on autopilot until Sam and Gabriel stumble in a few minutes later. Apparently three angels in the room is above Crowley’s current level of patience because he smokes out soon after, leaving Dean to stare suspiciously at the smug Trickster. It’s well past Sam’s usual ass crack of dawn jog, but it’s pretty damn clear he’s just gotten up.

He decides to hold off on the interrogation until after they talk to Kevin.

And, damn, if he isn’t a little proud of himself for keeping decent priorities. Or maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to reward himself with a piece of Gabriel’s bacon.

 

* * *

 

 

When Michael asks Castiel to assist in the preparation of the ritual, it’s somewhat surprising. Clearly this is as close as Castiel has ever been to his eldest brother. Gabriel, perhaps a little less so, but he tends to think that they are more themselves now than they ever were at the beginnings of the turmoil. Hardship, he has found, has a way of bringing out everything that peace allows to remain hidden.

Regardless, the ritual itself is relatively simple and straightforward for all that Castiel has never heard of it. Things run smoothly, and it isn’t long until Castiel is painting the sigil on the floor of a spare room, cleared specifically for this purpose, while Michael works on the ingredients. What puzzles him most is that he knows that the dual effort is only sparing them minutes at most.

And then Michael finally speaks. “Dean spoke to you last night?” he asks with careful neutrality.

Suddenly, Castiel knows exactly what the purpose of this was. His first instinct is toward defensiveness, and he narrows his eyes. When he looks up, however, there’s a certain scripted calmness to his brother’s movements that tells him that this isn’t a conversation meant to begin a fight. There isn’t any open condemnation of Castiel’s relationship with the Righteous Man. It’s… still somewhat surprising to be on the receiving end of a fraternal protective instinct not entirely unlike Dean’s. “Yes,” he replies slowly, choosing to take a step in faith, “There was a minor argument.”

Michael tilts his head, eyes briefly shifting from his work to Castiel, who feels more than a little pang of pride at catching his brother off guard. “…My sympathies,” he says almost curiously, like he’s tasting the words and isn’t quite sure yet if he likes them.

Castiel shakes his head. “We spoke about it last night and came to an agreement to avoid martyring ourselves for each other in the future,” he reports frankly, going out of his way to catch his Michael’s gaze, “I understand why he asked you about the Blade first, brother.” That wasn’t the core of the argument in the least. If anyone would know about a weapon presumably associated with Heaven, it’s Michael.

Michael actually looks mildly surprised by the declaration… or the openness of it. Granted, it’s then Castiel’s turn to be surprised, as something softens in Michael’s posture like shedding a layer of armor. “I see,” he muses absently. Silence falls between them again, but only for a moment. “When our siblings return home, change will be necessary.” Castiel doesn’t know what to make of that, so he stays quiet until Michael continues. “Gabriel and I would prefer you were part of that,” Michael tells him with a strange, almost-smile that Castiel doesn’t know how to read, “Even if from here.”

Castiel is so stunned he doesn’t have time to collect his thoughts before the Winchesters and Gabriel arrive. Knowing the topic is one meant for another time, he silences the immediate protests that come to mind.

Dean looks ashen in a way the hellfire hadn’t been able to accomplish. As always, his own guilt contributes to the greatest demon in his own mind. It’s a habit that Sam shares, but he seems… somewhat lighter than Castiel has anticipated. He casts a curious glance to Gabriel, who spares just long enough to wink back. Castiel frowns dryly at him then returns to his work. Without the distraction, it’s only minutes before he’s standing beside Dean.

“He won’t blame you,” Castiel tells him quietly.

The hunter shakes his head and falls further into his defensive posture, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The ritual begins when Michael carefully pours the mixture onto the lines of the sigil’s outermost circle. Tendrils of magic seep into the air with a crackle audible to the humans in the room.

For a long moment, nothing happens save for the pale glow of the charged sigil.

Naturally, it’s Gabriel that breaks the silence, “Uh… Mike. I hate to tell you, but I left my magic hat back in Asgard and we’re still down a prophet.”

“Wait,” Sam cuts in, brows drawn with a frown, “It didn’t work?”

“If the spirit wasn’t in the Bunker,” Michael explains with a long-suffering hint to his tone, “Traveling through astral planes isn’t a simple.”

It takes several minutes, but Castiel feels the flicker of a now powerful spirit before Kevin fades into the physical world. They seem to be fortunate; his soul is still strong and pure, despite the wear of wondering in places spirits weren’t meant to linger.

For a moment, no one else moves while Kevin inspects his hands and the distinct lack of spirit-like flickering. “Wow,” he mutters as though he’s forgotten that they can now hear him. Perhaps he has.

Dean is the first to step forward with a gruff “Kevin?” that fails to completely smother the emotion under it. Castiel’s eyes flicker to the hunter, but he knows better than to reach out just yet. Dean is sometimes infuriatingly private.

Kevin turns Dean’s way and frowns. “Please don’t start with a Dean Winchester angst attack,” he cuts in.

Castiel is pleased with the suggestion until he sees Dean all but flinch. Sam immediately takes up the slack, swallowing visibly against the emotion, “Look, I—“

“Or you, Sam,” Kevin continues with a quiet sort of strength. The sort that comes for someone who has nothing else to lose. Castiel is all too familiar with that. “If you want to make it up to me, start there.”

Both Winchesters agree tensely, but it’s a beginning. Taking advantage of it, Gabriel claps his hands loudly to draw attention back to him. “Prophet Kevin Tran? I’m Gabriel—yeah the dashing one with the halo. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but the circumstances suck,” he greets, “In case you haven’t heard, that stiff over there’s my brother, Michael: your handy guardian angel, for what it’s worth.”

Michael inclines his head politely when Kevin looks his way. “You’ve done us more of a service, I’m afraid,” he replies in lieu of a formal greeting. He lets his eyes trail to Adam purposefully, and Kevin follows the look.

“You can say that again,” Adam agrees frankly, “Thanks, man. Pretty sure you saved my skin.”

No one corrects him that it was his soul in danger rather than his body. Instead, Kevin shrugs his shoulders with a cloudy expression, “Trust me; I’m _really_ against Team Metatron.”

“Then you’ve heard about Gadreel?” Castiel asks. He’s aware that the bluntness of the question isn’t particularly polite, but it’s important.

Kevin winces and flickers once before nodding. “Yeah,” he replies, glancing around at those gathered in the room, “I’m stuck here most of the time, so I’ve heard a lot of it. Some of it came from other ghosts.”

Castiel frowns deeply, troubled by the news. “Spirits are congregating in the Veil?” he follows up.

Kevin appears to try and put the two pieces of information together, but doesn’t quite have the metaphysical background to find the cause of concern. “Yeah,” he answers, “It’s not exactly a five-star hotel, but it’s something. Keeps us sane.” He winces and flickers again before adding “Mostly.”

Gabriel whistles and shakes his head, but his Grace is clouded with concern. “If there’re that many cagey souls in one place…”

“Have your people gather as many reapers as possible,” Michael suggests quickly with the efficiency of someone used to making rapid, executive decisions, “Keep them under watch.”

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t appreciate the idea of limiting his siblings’ freedom, but he understands the purpose. “Our numbers are already falling with each day I spend here,” he points out, “They won’t appreciate treating our own like prisoners—even for their own safety.”

Gabriel shrugs, unfettered, “So Mikey here should hook back up to angel radio.” The suggestion stills the room. Gabriel rolls his eyes, “Metatron already knows he’s back. Element of surprise lost. We wanna limit the opposition now, so we draw off Metatron’s numbers. Think about it: Metatron wasn’t exactly the most personable Joe, and I’m guessing that hasn’t changed. I left, and Cassy—no offense—but I’m pretty sure everybody’s still a _little_ bitter about the whole Leviathan thing. But we’ve got Michael here, who at least kept the peace before you three glorious chuckleheads tore up the script.”

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Gabriel, too, was one of Heaven’s lieutenants.

He feels Michael’s gaze, but it isn’t entirely as steady as he expects it to be. “If Castiel is amiable,” their eldest qualifies.

Castiel considers it a moment and then nods. “Gabriel is right,” he agrees, repressing a wince, “Few of our brothers would fight against you.”

The agitated twitch of Michael’s wings goes unseen by any of the humans, but Castiel sees it and only then recognizes the implication of the words. He’d merely meant that the authority of an archangel is still recognized in many of their siblings, particularly with the fallout of Raphael’s loss. What he believes Michael recalls is the first Civil War—the siblings they had cut down and the one Michael had cast down. Both sentiments, unfortunately, are true.

Kevin shifts uncomfortably in the center of the now dull sigil, “Something tells me you guys didn’t bring me here just to ask me about the souls.”

“No,” Michael admits, “He was here. I need to know how if we’re to defend against it again.”

Kevin shakes his head, “I’m not sure exactly what he did, but he didn’t get through without the toll.” He glances around at the walls and roof as though there’s more there that even Castiel cannot see. “The wards here are…” he trails off with a grimace, “I have trouble moving around with them sometimes. If you’re gonna make a move, you should make it before he recovers.”

Castiel remembers the feeling of distinct discomfort he’d felt the first time he’d entered the Bunker. He still isn’t entirely certain that Dean or Sam hadn’t altered some of the wards, or if he’d merely become accustomed to them. What matters, however, is that Metatron has been temporarily weakened by them. “Then we should finish the ritual soon,” he suggests.

Only then does Kevin look wary. For the first time, his attention focuses directly on Michael. “Were you actually supposed to protect me?” he asks, shoulders set in a stubbornness mirrored after the Winchesters.

Michael hesitates, eyes cool and wary. “Yes,” he replies simply. There’s no follow up explanation. Nothing about having been trapped in the Cage with Lucifer, unable to attend to his assigned prophet. Merely an acceptance that he had ultimately been unable to do so, despite the circumstances.

Inexplicably, Kevin picks up on the signals, and Castiel at once wonders just how much of them prophets can see or sense. “Look, I know stopping Metatron is the priority,” Kevin continues, “But I need your help.”

“Help with what?” Dean asks with the familiar glint of determination in his posture.

“My mom,” Kevin answers, worry bleeding through the determination, “I think she’s still alive.”

Sam shakes his head, the weight of dread heavy on his shoulders, “Kevin… Crowley isn’t a guy to lie about who he has or hasn’t killed.”

“Look, I know it sounds like a long shot,” Kevin counters, “But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think there was a chance. Just try. That’s all I’m asking.”

It takes several seconds to place the “okay” that follows, not with Sam or Dean, but with Adam. The blonde shrugs under the attention that follows. “What? He saved my ass,” he points out as though the human pieces of his soul aren’t shifting with anxiety, “Least I can do is try and return the favor.”

Dean nods. If anyone understands the need to pay back debts, they are likely standing in this very room. “Alright, but you’re not going anywhere by yourself,” he declares. When Sam starts to speak up, Dean holds up a hand and lets his defensive posture slide away just long enough to silence his brother, “You can think what you want, Sammy, but I had a hand in making this mess. I’ve gotta do this, too.”

“If Mrs. Tran is alive,” Castiel adds, “Then it would be prudent for one of us to go with you.”

Adam nods in agreement, looking marginally less anxious. “Okay. So, Dean and I’ll look for Mrs. Tran. Metatron might figure we’re busy with that, so you guys can go get that feather.”

Sam instantly loses the color in his features. Castiel still finds drastic physical relations like that alarming, even now; Grace is far more durable and steady. “Metatron isn’t the one we need to be worried about on that front,” Sam points out.

No one needs to ask whom Sam refers to.

“Which is why Cassy is going with Dean-o and Adam,” Gabriel announces, “Michael and I are the big guns. If Luci’s feeling feisty, we’re the best bet at taking him back down a notch.”

Sam’s alarm instantly increases, “Gabriel…”

Gabriel smiles, but his own wings shift in a pattern of restrained distress. “It’s okay, kiddo,” he assures, with a glance at Michael, “I’ve got some mean backup.”

Michael nods his assurance, but it does little to settle Sam. Instead, he takes a moment to consider something. The moment he makes a decision is obvious, as his shoulders set, and his heartbeat evens out. He turns to Gabriel first, “I’m coming with you.”

To his credit, Dean isn’t the only one visibly alarmed by that declaration; he’s merely the first to vocalize it. “Sammy, you’re _not_ going if there’s even a chance—“

“I can make my own decisions!” Sam snaps. He appears to regret it when Dean recoils and softens his defense instead. “You know how you have to help Kevin? Well, I have do to this.”

“No, you don’t,” Michael counters, eyes dark and solemn, “If you chose to accompany us, I won’t stop you, but you are by no means under an obligation for fate or my brother’s actions while possessing you. Understand that before you chose.”

…Castiel believes the most appropriate phrase is ‘ _Holy shit_.’ That is quite the leap from an angel who refused to believe in free will not so long ago.

Sam gives pause, eyes shifting from Michael to Gabriel while he weights his options. Finally, he nods, “I’m going,” he decides, “I need to know that I’m…”

No one asks what Sam needs to prove to himself.

Dean makes a valiant attempt at masking how unhappy he is with the situation as he returns his attention to their resident spirit, “Alright, Kevin. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

 

* * *

 

 

After the chaos of the day (and adjusting to the fact that the Bunker’s latest resident doesn’t exactly have to obey walls), Adam finds himself straying toward the other side of the Bunker. He likes Kevin. He really does because, under the mostly quiet, unassuming thing, he’s got enough chops to sass Sam and Dean. It’s a quality Adam can appreciate in just about anyone who isn’t trying to kill them.

Still, for all that Kevin pulled his ass out of the fire, Adam doesn’t really know him all that well whereas his brothers do. Obviously, there’s some closure that needs to be worked out there, so he gives them their space. He has a feeling it’ll do all three of them some good. Castiel hangs around with them likely because Dean still looks visibly upset. They all know that’s more telling than anything and figure it’s for the best. Gabriel and Michael, however, follow through with Adam’s example.

He doesn’t see much of them since he spends most of the day looking over the best ways to deal with demons and track down ghosts as well as packing up the stuff he thinks he’ll need. It’s more than a little nerve wracking, going on a legitimate hunt, but he knows this is his life now. He’s long since decided that it’s better to be prepared for the constant waves of shit storms that come their way than ignore they exist.

He’s halfway through a google search in his room that night when there’s a knock. Given how many sessions he and Michael have had, digging around in Adam’s shittiest memories, he recognizes it immediately and barks out an “It’s open.”

Michael shuffles in and settles on the side of the bed to wait patiently for Adam to finish scrolling through the page.

When the human finally sets aside his laptop and gives Michael his attention, he’s almost surprised that that’s the case.

The stone-faced solider is gone, replaced with someone a lot more… reachable. There’s a pinch in his brow and rigid tension in his spine and shoulders. Green eyes are clouded and stormy with conflict.

Adam instantly regrets making him wait. He sits up straighter, so that his knee accidentally brushes the outside of Michael’s. “You okay?” he prompts. It’s a dumb question he knows the answer to, but he also knows that it gives Michael the power to say ‘yes’ if he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Turns out he does because he shakes his head. “I’m… troubled,” he replies slowly, biting out the word like it’s made of acid.

Adam frowns and pushes the laptop further out of the way, partially to make more space and partially to have something to do. “About what?” he asks, “The shit that went down with Metatron or going to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.”

Michael frowns distastefully, just one step above his nose scrunching. And, okay, Adam has to admit it; it’s friggin’ cute, even if the guy can level cities like it’s nothing at full power. Well, it would be if he didn’t look so damn conflicted about it all. The expression is supplemented for a more serious one when he sighs and glances at the laptop’s metallic lid. “Metatron’s petty power play will end,” he says with a casual sort of conviction, “And my brother will do what he pleases, as always.” His gaze meets Adam’s again as some of the conflict settles out of his features. “I haven’t yet reconnected to the Host.”

Adam tries to bite his lip, but he can’t help it. “You’re not a computer, Mike,” he points out, only to blame it on the Winchester blood in his veins. “Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, when it’s pretty clear he’s thrown Michael completely off track, “Are you in any rush to?”

Michael nods, letting the ill-fated comment slide, “Every minute I waste is another for those on Metatron’s side to decide to join Castiel.”

The lack of connection to anyone outside of Castiel, Gabriel, and Lucifer seems oddly important in all this. Mostly because he remembers the short conversations with Michael before everything literally went to Hell; being an angel—part of the Host—had been a big part of who Michael was then. And Adam gets it. He really does because, unlike his brothers, he got to the game late enough to already have a set of assumptions about reality. None of them included monsters, angels, and destiny. He gets what it’s like to have everything safe and normal pulled right out from under his feet.

“Why are you waiting then?” he asks as neutrally as he can because, somewhere along the way, he’s managed to become the angel therapist of the group.

Michael shifts, pulling his legs up onto the bed and folding them neatly. He settles his hands loosely on his knees and goes into that intent look of reflection. “What am I supposed to offer them?” he asks softly, “Absolution? Revelation? I left both of those in the Cage. I’m not what I was.”

Oh. _Damn_. Probably a good thing Adam put the laptop away because this is… probably way above his pay grade. It’s quiet for a minute, but he knows better than to leave it at that. He’s reaching for some grand, lofty answer he’s pretty sure doesn’t actually exist when it dawns on him. “They’re your siblings, right?” he prompts. When Michael nods slowly like that’s a given, Adam smirks like a complete smug bastard. “Then talk to them like you’re their brother—not their commander.”

There’s a second that Adam starts doubting that his inspired answer is going to do more good than harm. Then Michael starts blinking again and stops looking like a statue. He seems to think it over before he glances at Adam without the conflict clouding up his face. “May I?” he asks, that last piece of armor refusing to fall completely away.

“What? Stay here?” Adam guesses, “Yeah. Mi casa and all.” He hesitates a second while Michael readjusts to lean against the headboard. He looks oddly comfortable there, and it does weird things to Adam’s stomach because, hell, he’s starting to accept that this isn’t exactly a thing that’s going away anytime soon. Michael folds his fingers over his stomach and shuts his eyes. “Uh… Is this a ‘total quiet’ thing?” Adam asks, “I can go sit at the desk or something.”

Michael cracks open one eye and lifts a brow incredulously. The corner of his lip twitches into a faint, crooked smile. “I’d prefer you stay,” he replies without a hint of shame, “Your presence is grounding.”

Adam grabs his laptop to hide the instinct to fumble in light of the declaration. Without much thought, he sits back next to the angel, shoulders and thighs lined up casually, just to prove that he can be a smug bastard, too, and cracks the screen open. Apparently appeased, Michael shuts his eyes again. It’s a pointless gesture, but Adam figures it’s because he’s still human enough to find the no-blinking-stare thing more than a little creepy.

It’s not exactly a surprise that it’s comfortable. He taps away at the keys for more information on the town while Michael chats with his family. A few minutes in, he hears a muffled crash down the hall, followed by Gabriel’s laughter and Dean’s gruff "Son of bitch!" He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.

He gets fed up with the dead ends about half an hour in and moves just enough to set the laptop down on the floor. It’s pretty easy to just lean back and shut his eyes since he’d had a shitty time of trying to sleep the night before. Too many nightmares waiting behind his eyelids.

He doesn’t know when he starts to doze, but comes back to when he feels Michael shift enough to partially sit back up. Adam turns his eyes back to the angel like he isn’t only about half awake. Instead of using his big boy words, he makes a face asking the silent ‘ _Well?_ ’

Luckily, Michael has been around them long enough to get it before he nods. “I suspect Castiel will have new recruits tomorrow,” he admits, eyes softening a fraction, “Thank you.”

Adam huffs and ends up stifling a yawn. “’Cause I definitely did the hard part,” he deadpans, “Your job is basically herding cats.”  

Michael shifts more, probably getting ready to get up. It’s all but confirmed when he mutters “Rest.”

Later, Adam will blame it on the sleep fog. It doesn’t really matter though because he’s got his fingers curled around Michael’s wrist, and there’s really not a way to misread that. So he doesn’t even try offer up some witty or dumbass excuse because he’s way too tired for that sort of dramatic bullshit. He just waits because they both know Michael’s more than strong enough to pull his wrist back out of the weak hold and leave if he wants to. Hell. Adam wouldn’t even be upset if that’s what he wants. Disappointed, maybe, but nothing they can’t come back from.

But Michael doesn’t. Just tilts his head like he’s working out another ‘humans are strange’ thing before he settles back down. He lifts his free hand and hesitates only a second before he snaps, and the lights go out except for that freaking annoying little sleep-mode light on Adam’s computer.

He makes a pleased noise and manages to squirm under a layer of covers with awkward, jerky movements he’ll remember to be embarrassed about in the morning. Instead, he settles in, all but sure the nightmares aren’t coming back around when he can feel the warmth bleeding into his back. “You’re gonna be careful, right?” he mutters into his pillow, “’Cause, if Lucifer kills you, I’m gonna be pissed.”

There’s a huff of air that Adam’s pretty sure is supposed to sound amused. “You have my word,” Michael indulges him, “Though I would have yours, too.”

 Adam rolls his eyes and reaches back to playfully smack the angel’s side, “I’m always careful, jackass.”

To Michael’s credit, he doesn’t actually point out the whole slew of evidence to the contrary. He just sits there indulgently with a “rest well, Adam,” that clearly signals the end of the conversation.

For once, Adam doesn’t really have much trouble obeying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are! Thanks again for putting up with my crazy schedule! Seriously, you all are the best, and I'm extremely flattered by the response this story has been getting. It makes it all worth it!


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